


Stolen

by Firenation



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Future, BAMF!Stiles, Because of Reasons, Bottom Derek Hale, But some angst too, Derek POV, Fluff, General love, HAPPY ENDING THOUGH DON'T WORRY, Hand Jobs, Later smut in the chapters, M/M, Mate principle, Nerdiness, Oral Sex, PWP, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Pack Mom Stiles Stilinski, Phone Sex, Porn With Plot, Rimming, Season 2 spoilers, So this is going to be 800000 words, Some pre-slash, Top Stiles Stilinski, Topping from the Bottom, and probably some Supernatural references in there too, but you never know it could be, got to earn the love, not really canon compliant AT ALL, one day, soon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:05:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 99,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firenation/pseuds/Firenation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek first meets Stiles when he's fifteen years old, just after the fire, and realises that he's his mate. You can picture the kind of joy that follows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

All Derek remembers from the fire is one, agonising moment; when his hand closed over the doorknob and tried to rip it from the hinges. He wanted to get inside, he wanted to see how much his wolf could take before it let him stay with them. Because he knew they were dead; he was too late, the reek of death was heavy in the air even before he saw the plumes of fire, walking back from the high school. He’d run as fast as he could, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. 

His fingers closed over the doorknob, the one his dad had made for them with the design of the wolf head (‘because really, who are we trying to kid here?’), and screamed as the metal burned into his hand. He ripped the door from its hinges, and then he was flying backwards as the fire seemed to explode. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the forest ground staring up at the afternoon sky. He felt vaguely alive for a second, but then he remembered; the ice encased him. He almost choked on his hollowness. 

He vaguely remembers being towed into a police car, but all he can look at is the fire; it’s burned into the back of his eyes, even with the fire-fighters rushing in and trying to help. The imprints of this fresh hell were scarred, bright white, onto his eyes. He knew even then that there was nothing left to help; all life and love and pack was gone, lost forever, and he was alone. 

Of course he had Laura, but she was still at the high-school, at detention, he relayed over to the police officer. This was odd, he suddenly realised; he’s wrapped in a blanket, on a creaking plastic chair in the Sheriff’s department. He’s lost hours; somehow he’d made it from his burned out, wreck of a home, into the centre of Beacons Hill. 

He hears the buzz of an office, the shrill ring of a telephone, and murmured words. His heightened ears tingle in mostly healed agony. 

But then there’s the small shuffle of feet, and a pair of tatty sneakers have stopped in front of him. He blinks upwards, and there’s a small kid standing there; he can’t be more than nine. Derek drinks him in, thinking to snarl and bark out something resembling go away but he can’t. 

Because this kid has to be the most perfect, innocent little thing he’s ever seen, which isn’t saying much. Kate gets shoved to the back of Derek’s head. This perfect, strange kid’s gawky and splattered with random moles and freckles on this pale, flawless skin. His hair is inky brown, almost a buzz cut. His mouth is a small, perfect cupid’s bow, which has to get him out of trouble all the time. And it’s saying things to him. Derek focuses. 

The boy doesn’t ask if he’s okay, in this quiet voice, which Derek appreciates, because he would literally crumble inwards if anyone asked that. He can’t imagine ever feeling close to something near alright ever again. The boy’s quiet, although he’s trembling; Derek can’t smell fear but he can’t smell much over the reek of burn in his nose.  
What he does do is hand over a set of band-aids. Batman band-aids, to be precise. “My mom always gives me a spare set. You- your hand- I thought that you would need them. And Batman always helps, because, hello- it’s Batman.” 

Derek, for some odd reason, wants to cry. Not just because he agrees- because he does, DC will always be better than Marvel that’s just the way things are- and he's finally found someone who agrees with him. No, he’s not sure precisely why he wants to cry aimlessly, besides the obvious reason that his entire family was just murdered. But the kid is being nice, and it matters to him, for no reason whatsoever. It matters. 

He holds out his hand for the band-aids, and Stiles takes his hand and puts them on for him. Which Derek wasn’t expecting, at all. The doorknob burned his hand, and it’s healing a lot slower than it should be. Good. Maybe his body is punishing him. 

He feels a jolt of something a lot different to pain from his hand. His eyes search the kid’s quickly, bright honey brown, and Derek feels himself relax, if only for a second, internally. Before he’s swallowed in grief and self-loathing again. But Stiles is still holding his hand.

“Stiles!” A male voice half-yells, from the office a few yards away. The kid- Stiles- flinches and gives Derek a small, sad smile but ducks away into said office. His hand feels startlingly empty, as if a bucket of water had just been thrown over him, washing him in his memories again. “I told you to stay away from him, for God’s sake, what that boy’s been through- you didn’t need to bug him. You should have left him alone.” 

“I couldn’t leave him alone, dad,” the boy protests indignantly. “Batman always makes things better. If you don’t know that by NOW I really should think about emancipation.”

Derek almost smiles at that. Almost. But then Laura rushes in, sobbing, and all Derek can think about is how she needs him. 

He can’t think about the fact that he’s just met his mate. 

Laura makes them leave Beacons Hill the minute after they go back to the house. They collect all they can, which isn’t a lot; the safety deposit box under the desk in the study manages to escape the worst of the damage, and everything from the forms for the life insurance, their birth certificates and passports are in there. Everything else, clothes, books- it’ll have to be replaced. They already have their mom’s car; Laura drove them to school that morning, and they’ll sell it as soon as they get to New York. Because they go to New York, even though it feels that Derek’s ripping himself in half, which he is essentially doing; Stiles is his anchor. His other half. That’s just how it is. Even now, Derek’s fighting the impulse to go and claim him with a bunch of popcorn and a pile of vintage Batman (he knows it would work, okay). But they’ve got to leave, argues Laura; if they stay they’ll just put him in more danger, and then where will Derek be? Lost, completely, rather than only falling. She promises that they’ll come back in eight years; Stiles will be an adult then, but it’s not really important to her. A mate is a luxury they can’t afford to have right now. He pleads with Laura to let them drive past his house on the way out of town, but she won’t even let him have that.  
So, in the dark of the night, before the burn of sunrise, they steal away. 

*****

He tries to pretend that he doesn’t hear Laura’s hitching sobs every single damn night, but it’s difficult; he just wants to let his misery flow alongside hers. That would be right; the link between an alpha and their beta is strong, but there are only two of them, so their pack bond is weaker than it should be. He feels fragile, easily shaken, like a healing animal; so he does what he can to make himself strong, to defend their territory; a two bedroom walk-up in the village. Some territory. He does not lustfully remember the lush, green leaves of Beacon Hills.  
He gets a job. He bulks up, and it’s not because Kate wanted him to, although it takes him weeks to convince himself that she really did not love him and she burned down his house. He often gets so angry at himself that he does seventy or so punishing pull-ups, followed by sit-ups, and lastly, he runs around the city. Muggers always leave sprinters alone. Laura works the night shift, so he’s alone. He doesn’t even like to think how alone he is. 

*****  
Middle school isn’t exactly the best time for Stiles, depending on your definition. On the plus side, a new kid turns up at the school, skin littered with fading bruises, and cursed with crippling shyness; Stiles’s heart goes out to him immediately, ad before he knows it, he seems to have grown a best friend. He invites him over for video games and popcorn when he can, which is all he can offer him right now. Lucky enough, this is exactly what Scott needs. 

On the downside, his mother is dying of cancer, his father only comes home to make him dinner and he gets diagnosed with ADHD. His mom, the woman that never even had a cold, now lies slowly fading in a sterile white room. He brings her a splash of flowers almost everyday, to remind her of what she loves; him and life. His father buries himself in his work and her, as if with the power of his determination alone he could make her stay with him. Stiles hopes, all he wants is for everyone to come home; he gets too used to sleeping alone in the silent house.  
*****

Derek’s dreams are things he wants to get away from, to the point that he pushes himself to the brink of exhaustion with rigorous exercise routines. Gone is the boy with the lean frame, now he’s all muscle; by the age of seventeen, he’s filled out. He’s left school behind; either way, technically speaking, he’s never going to have to work again. The life insurance claims are painful to look at but Laura manages to easily buy the car she always wanted, a Chevy Camaro. To keep himself busy, though, Derek works; otherwise he would go nuts. It helps that his job involves lifting heavy pieces in the car shop. It’s painful, hard work, leaving his hands with bloody, bruised calluses. He’s paid well for his labour, but all it reminds him of is Uncle Mark, with the moss green, shiny Mercedes (he does mourn that car for a period of time) and the promise that it was his when he turned seventeen if he knew all there was to know about fixing up cars and keeping them ‘healthy’- he’d laughed when Derek borrowed a thick stack of car books from the library one Friday night. But Derek had devoured the books avidly, finishing the stack before the next Monday (he was a fast reader) and now knows cars better than he knows himself. Which is arguably not the most difficult task. 

Because his dreams, they fall into two distinct categories; worse and worser. The worse dreams are the standard; he sees the house, it haunts his existence. He pictures his family screaming for him, burning. And fine, it doesn’t make sense to him now but the other dreams are worse. Somehow. Damn logic. Much, much worse. 

He dreams of Stiles. 

Sees him almost as clearly as if he were standing in front of him. As if he’s just watching over his days. But he hates that he sees the kid suffering; makes him angrier that it’s just his life he’s watching. He uses this anger at Stiles (which isn’t really anger, but is something else entirely too abstract to consider) to anchor himself, during the moon. If anything, Derek begins to resent him, because he’s making Derek see all of this and suffer alongside with him, and makes him feel like he’s experiencing it all right along with Stiles, seeing things through the stupid link of being mates with one another.

He’s seeing Stiles’ mom get sicker and sicker by the day until she no longer looks remotely like Stiles. He sees his dad fall into a drinking pattern and into his work. He hates that he sees Stiles alone every single evening; Stiles goes to the hospital right after school, watches his mom sleep for a solid three hours, then leaves as his dad arrives. The kid has to start making dinner (or ordering it in, really, which Derek honest to God worries over) every evening as his father forgets him. 

He hates that he falls asleep crying every single damn night, when it’s like a punch in the face for Derek, because he should be there with Stiles.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return of the prodigal wolf is full of as much fun and pain as you'd imagine.

Derek would like to say that the years pass swiftly, easily, but that would be a lie of the worst kind. He’s read the books (God knows Laura’s shoved them under his nose at every available opportunity) he knows he should be getting over what Kate did and his family right about here, but he can’t let it go. He stews in his self-disgust, it festers like a Wolfsbane injury. 

The thing that hits him the hardest is his utter loss in his belief in humanity, the quality he used to value most in himself; being trustworthy, is all but shot. It’s not just that he let Kate get past his defenses, because he was sixteen, from the grand old age of, uh, twenty four, he could pass it off as an expression of his hormones and a youthful mistake. He was weak, easy prey, easily manipulated; young. 

But he wasn't any different (despite the fact he was without a Stiles in his life. What a simple, simple time that was) he was still the Derek he is today. Which scares him. A lot. He’s never really trusted easily, not outside of the pack (something about him and other people generally don’t mix, go figure) but now he splinters even more than he thought was even possible, trusting generally no one outside of pack (Laura and Stiles usually count as pack). 

He’s afraid, though, that time has stolen the best parts of his character, the parts that would complement Stiles, because without him he’s drifting in this vacuum of Laura and work and panic and dreaming about Stiles. 

So he finds himself almost glad that he has this time away from Stiles, really he is (although this thankfulness comes and goes when he finds himself craving the weight of Stiles’ eyes on him and his scent) because he needs to fix himself, somehow, piece together what has been shattered. He’s terrified that if he continues to shatter internally there’ll be nothing for Stiles to hold onto when the time comes, and could he even really trust him if that ever happens? 

*****

Because Derek just generally has the worst luck, that time comes before it’s supposed to. He returns from a trying day at the garage, nursing a particularly brutal silver purple bruise on his wrist that he couldn't let his body heal because his boss was watching all the time. However, when he sees Laura standing in their living room, surrounded by several fraying duffel bags that bring back the scents and the memories; horror, destruction, misery and the tangible smell of burning (which Derek still scents on himself occasionally) he’s so shocked he accidentally jolts his body into healing the pinched skin of his wrist. He’s lost for words, which never ever happens. 

“What are you doing?” His voice is gruff, guarded. Derek’s thoughts are a mixed jumble of piercing memories, torn between the golden brown of Stiles’ eyes (which they arguably always rest on, some aspect of Stiles, it gets him through his day) and the prospect of going back to Beacon Hills. 

“I got a tip, Der,” Laura says gently, or as gently as she can. “I need to go and check; one of my sources has got back to me on something that could help. With the fire.” They never say their names. 

“So you’re going back?” Derek’s voice is painfully eager and angry at the same time. There are warring parts within him; the stupid part that he never listens to argues that he has to go back, for several important reasons all beginning with the letter ‘S’ and ending in ‘tiles’, whilst the other part recoils in terror at the idea of returning to the house. He’s not ready to go back, simple as that. Not yet. 

He finds himself imagining it, the house rotting, empty, cold without the heat of the fireplace (which always took his dad three tries at least to get it started) and the porch crumbling. He made that porch with his dad. The kitchen will be silent without Peter’s cooking and his mother’s jokes, because they were the source of his sarcasm, in general. His dad was a pussy cat in comparison. There won’t be the patter of Helen’s little kid feet on the floor, or Stephen’s teenager-y slamming of doors. None of that will be there, like it never existed. 

“I have to,” her voice is dead serious, and almost cracks at the end, and he knows that she’s imagining it all too. “But I want you to stay here, Derek. You’re not strong enough yet to see him, and you know it too. I just want to see this person and get out. I won’t stay any longer than I have to.” 

“But-” he finds himself beginning to protest, that stupid part, thanks for that, and Laura flashes her eyes in warning, probably instinctively. Laura literally never uses her alpha gifts. She’d found her anchor, years ago, and it doesn’t matter that none of them are alive anymore; their memories are strong enough to tether her to her humanity every full moon. 

She’s not being unreasonable, she’s actually being pretty smart, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. He watches sullenly as she leaves, and the worst part is that he can’t even remember if he says goodbye as she leaves. 

*****

He lasts a whole two days before he gives up and follows her back to the ‘Hills (the joke used to make him laugh as a kid and he still snorts now). He stays awake for two nights straight, just thinking of all the things he could be doing; he could be helping Laura, visiting the state graves for his parents, maybe even visiting Peter (they’d gotten the call a few months after the fire and they’ve been paying for his long-term health care in Beacon Hills ever since) and…seeing Stiles? 

Maybe he could convince him to go on a date with him. He could sit with him, on the opposite side of the table (like they do in dates in films), put his foot against his, just resting. He imagines that it would feel as though Mardi Gras were dancing through his veins. His inner wolf would be appeased, and let’s face it, he never lets himself have what he wants, so he could treat him to a quiet dinner (Stiles and the wolf that is). Stiles would talk about anything, and the luxury of the thought kills him. He just wants to see him; it’s not that ridiculous an idea.

Okay, it’s a ridiculous concept, but the possibility of it drives him insane. Quite literally. He finally understands Hamlet after a night of straight reading (because he can’t sleep), and gets how madness is the ‘very ecstasy of love’. He understands Shakespeare. This clearly is a sign that he’s doing something wrong. He’s organising the tins in the cupboards in height order and colour coordinating the fridge magnets. To make matters worse, he has the days off from work. Something about working every other day of the year means that he is legally obligated to take two days off, and those days are now. He thinks that someone up there has a really sick sense of humour. 

It’s probably the tedium of staying at home, alone, with just his thoughts for company (and those thoughts are not ones to be alone with) that drive him to hire a car and travel the three day journey, alone, across the country to Beacon Hills. Yeah. Because he apparently just can’t stay away and is possibly a masochist. 

*****

The journey as it goes is pretty bad; he has to stop the car on the hard shoulder on the second day of driving to vomit all over the ground. He’s leaning, shaking against the car, as he feels all the strength drain out of him. The moon reflects in the glass of the car and it’s only his vague irritation at the world (and by that he means his irritation at you know who) that keeps him from wolfing out and finding his alpha. The thing is, Werewolf packs are not built to be separated; he feels weak anyway, without Laura in his current vicinity, but now he feels pitifully vulnerable. More so than he usually does, which frightens him so much that he tells himself that he doesn’t know why he can’t feel Laura and he doesn’t know what that sensation was earlier. He has to sit down in the car for a full thirty minutes before his hands even stop shaking, and he knows that the return to Beacon Hills is going to invariably be the best and worst decision of his life. 

He reaches Beacon Hills at midnight, and the town is cloaked in pure darkness as he drives through. No city lights light his way. He drives up the driveway, the long driveway that used to be bordered with flowers but is now just littered with leaves, after eight years. Eight years have passed.

The house tears him apart, leaves him wounded; it’s completely decrepit, falling to pieces. It’s a pretty accurate depiction of his feelings, actually. He slams the car door harder than perhaps necessary as he steps onto the porch. He made this porch with his dad, and he remembers the sharp heat of that week-end, the hours he’d struggled with the labour. He’d been seven and a little small for his age, he was still growing, but he’d managed it in the end. Stephen and Laura had helped a little, but Helen was too small to even pick up a hammer. His eyes burn at the memory. 

He tosses the duffel bag of his clothes on the floor and leaves again, although the scent of Laura is wrapped around the house, a little. It makes him feel a little better but he doesn’t call out for her. He’s not stupid. 

He stalks through the woods with the grace of a predator for a few minutes, relearning the patterns of the shadows the trees make against the ground. He feels a little odd, for a moment, under the moonlight, but he imagines the press of Stiles against him and the pain dissipates.

He finds an inhaler in the woods and shoves it in his pocket, for no reason whatsoever. 

However, when he finds Laura he actively wants to die. He howls; long and drawn out before he shuts himself up. He’s crying. His sister- the one who taught him how to love books, who took care of him and acted like his mom after the fire, the same sister who he didn’t explain everything to and let walk out of his apartment without saying goodbye to- is dead? No. No. He can’t be alone. He can’t. 

He shudders and sobs. He lifts her up; ignoring the blood her cold body paints him in, and takes her back to the house. He wants to bury her near the others. Where they lost everything, where they had everything at one point- he wants her to stay there. 

After he buries her, wraps her grave in Wolfsbane to keep the Change away, he sits on the porch, hands wrapped around his knees. He needs Stiles. He needs an anchor, he needs the pressure of his body against his side, and the thought sends a shudder ripping through his body. He just lies there for hours until he slips into sleep, shivering in muted agony. 

*****

Derek wakes up the next day to the scent of Stiles. He snaps awake, his body aching from cold. He still bounds off the porch, even though he hasn’t washed in days, towards Stiles. He’s in the woods? Why is he in the woods? What will he look like? The questions circle his brain and torture him with excitement, even though he’s still caught up in his misery over Laura. He grits his teeth and ignores the fact that Laura thought he wasn’t ready to see Stiles, because he’s really not ready. But he needs to see him. 

He reaches this clearing, and spots Stiles with a boy. His stomach tightens momentarily, but the other kid’s just searching the ground for something, while Stiles stares at the ground too, like they've lost something.

Derek drinks him in, staring at him for a few minutes, while he has him standing still, while he can. He’s the same- impossibly taller, god, he’s basically Derek’s height now, dammit- but the honey eyes are the same, the flawless skin with the new freckles, the perfect cupid’s bow mouth. 

Derek wants to kiss every new freckle. How is he more attractive? He didn't even think that was really even possible. That's not okay; Derek's not alright with that. Except he is really, really more than alright with that. 

There’s vague recognition in Stiles’s expression, but also some anxiety- Derek could smell both. Along with some excitement, which Derek doesn't understand, but secretly likes. He hides it all- his delight, wonder, under the blank mask he had perfected back in New York. 

“This is private property,” he hears himself say sharply, striding closer to the teen and his friend. Maybe because he apparently likes to test himself, to see how close he can get before he snaps and spills everything. 

He hears Stiles apologise hastily and backtrack, voice deeper and just generally sexual. He can’t understand how his voice is attractive, it doesn’t even make sense, but it is. Then his nose picks up on the scent of werewolf, a beta, and he panics for a millisecond. But Stiles’s scent is reaching Derek, headier than it was, but still the same; fresh and human. Which means that his friend must be a werewolf. Who belongs to the inhaler. Said friend apologises slowly and Derek tosses him the inhaler. 

He turns away, but he can’t help but look back at Stiles; his mouth is open and red and way too inviting. He seems to be having a minor existential crisis, though, so Derek stops and hides behind a tree. Because he can and it is not weird (although he hears Laura in his head whispering creeper) but he wants to hear every single word Stiles says.

“Dude, that was Derek Hale,” his voice is filled with awe and other things that make Derek want to preen, but he does not, because he is not a six year old or a winner of a beauty pageant. “Remember? He’s only a few years older than us.” 

Derek’s currently freaking out about the fact that Stiles remembers him, before everything hits him again, and he lets himself leave. Laura. Everything seems to be worse; the grief hits him twice as hard as he returns to the house. His sister’s scent is still wound around the house, as painful as a blow to the face. 

He needs to talk to someone about everything (not a psychiatrist because most of his money’s back in New York, although he does seriously consider it), or failing that, talk at someone. He almost feels sorry for forcing his comatose uncle to listen to his woes, but he has no one else. 

*****

So he talks to Peter for hours, about New York and Stiles and Laura until he’s tossed out of the home. He doesn’t even feel faintly better. He gets back to the house and even just stepping through the doorway makes his knees buckle. He sleeps on the porch, even though it’s minus three degrees outside, because he can’t handle it. 

*****

That’s where the police find him a few mornings later, asleep, exhausted after he’s saved Scott’s (that’s the name of Stiles’ friend, who smells kind of odd and may or may not be on some sort of medication, because he’s basically a puppy even though he’s sixteen years old) life and saved his ass and he’s accidentally mentioned the fact that they’re going to be brothers in a few years time. 

Well. Brothers in law. He backtracks though, and says they’re going to be brothers in wolf.

They snap handcuffs on him and slam him in the back of the car. They think he killed Laura probably because he has half of her body out back of the house. 

He feels guilt unfurl in his stomach, and he sits there stewing in misery for a few minutes before someone climbs into the front seat. Of course it’s Stiles. Because the universe really hates him right now and he just wants to go and find a bed, preferably with Stiles in it, but either would be good. 

Stiles stares at him, heartbeat thrumming, face older and full of a little trepidation. Derek fights the impulse to shove his face towards the barrier, where Stiles’ fingers wrap around the metal, because he’s not actually a psychopath and he values his life. 

But the scent of him fills the car and it is really a lot to ask of Derek, first thing in the morning. He breathes in deeply and just stares at Stiles while he contemplates what he can say. He aches from the thought of even killing Laura, and there’s his fucking mate just sitting there assuming that he’s murdered the only member of his family. It kills him. 

“Why are you so worried about me when it’s your friend who’s the problem?” Wow, okay, his voice is really low. It sounds like he’s trying to seduce him but dammit he can’t change it. Out of context, that’s not great. He’s frustrated though, at Stiles, at his inability to comprehend his significance. “When he shifts on the field what do you think they’re gonna do, huh? Just keep cheering him on?” Stiles looks genuinely horrified and Derek feels a barb of guilt in his gut. “I can’t stop him from playing but you can.” 

Their faces are only inches away, because of course Derek shoved his face towards him, and his eyes are focused entirely on Stiles’ lips, he can feel it but he doesn't know how to stop. When he’s around Stiles he could really use a manual for his body because it does not work properly, dammit. He’s confused. He is deeply, deeply confused. 

“And trust me?” His eyes roam his face avidly, trying to commit it to memory, because it is too pretty in a way that it shouldn't be, boys aren't supposed to be pretty but here’s this beautiful frustrating idiot of a mate and he can’t keep from wanting him. Stiles looks distracted and Derek knows exactly how he feels. “You want to.”

Stiles drops a quick, admiring look at Derek before he’s yanked out of the car. Derek’s breathing really hard, like he’s run a marathon, and he sits back in his seat to watch Stiles. He sees the edge of his shirt ride up and he sees the dimples at the base of Stiles’ spine. It does not turn him on. Nope. Not even a little bit. 

Then he pays attention to the man that Stiles is talking to. The Sheriff. He’s talking with easily familiarity, and the affection seeping off the man is a clear indicator that he’s Stiles’ dad. So the Sheriff is Stiles’ father. Which he really should have realised before. So he’s mated with the underage son of the Sheriff. 

Yeah. So basically fuck Derek Hale’s entire fucking existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and Kudos in general <3 I'm trying to upload every three days, so wait another three and it'll be up then. By the way, remember this story will have a happy ending, maybe don't kill me? Although this was hard to write and sad, because Derek is my favourite character (and Stiles). I hope you like it. Follow me on tumblr and we can buddy up and stuff :) haleyestosterekandmalec.tumblr.com  
> THANK YOU.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Stiles spend some fun, dangerous time together, involving a bullet and a supposedly comatose uncle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit late guys, it was hard to write, but I hope it was worth it and you guys like it! Thank you for reading <3

Living back in Beacon Hills brings with it unexpected perks; the lush green forest is a definite bonus, there’s really good coffee and he gets a job in the next town over, bar-tending at nights (thanks to his werewolf reflexes he’s pretty good at that) which brings in a lot of money, which he has no use for. He just stores it away, for the future, along with all the money from his job in New York and the life insurance money. 

He’s got Laura’s car now, which is horrible but at the same time great, because she loved that car. She would die (again) if she knew he’d sold it, so he takes care of it the best he can. He occasionally sniffs Stiles on Scott and he learns a lot of second hand information about him, because every single great idea Scott has usually starts with the phrase, ‘Well, Stiles thinks…’. Derek wants to know why if that’s what Stiles thinks, then where the hell is he? 

There’s still the Alpha roaming Beacon Hills, which he has to find and kill, if only for Laura’s sake. This is proving increasingly difficult to do alone, especially when he has no idea what to do. He’d never had to worry about things like this, when he was pack; he knew his mom, the Alpha, would take care of it, and when it was Laura, she would always tell him precisely what to do, in that old lady, bossy way she had. 

On that joyful note, he knows that Stiles is afraid of him, but maybe not because he’s Derek. He’s attracted to him; for the few seconds that he ever sees him, around the town or with Scott for a moment or two, the scent hits his nostrils, tickling them. It didn't even occur to Derek that maybe Stiles wouldn't be okay with liking a man, but that anxiety’s there. It’s ridiculously powerful, that scent; he just wants to puff his chest out and bring back dead animals for Stiles, but he’s not actually a wolf (and wouldn't be able to get away with it), so he doesn’t. 

This is why Derek pushes himself away from Stiles, for his own good, because Stiles is sixteen years old. The same age Derek was when Kate hurt him. He won’t do that to Stiles, and he’s not an animal; he can wait for a few more years. Waiting never killed anyone (yet). For the record, Stiles deserves far better than what Derek can offer him; a destroyed house, his sister’s car and a broken personality to match. Even all the love in the world wouldn't make up for that. 

But he holds onto him, somehow, because he is weak. He checks in on his house regularly, to make sure he’s okay, because being a human in an all werewolf world is more than difficult. Helen found it difficult and she was brought up as pack, so it must be a billion times harder for Stiles to deal with everything, which he hates.

He watches the house from the shadows when he can, usually on the way home from work, parking the Camaro a few blocks away. He’s got to force himself still sometimes, when he can hear Stiles crying for his mom (which he only does when a particular memory hits him. It’s worse around March), or when he starts jerking off (which he does a lot. It’s just really difficult for Derek to stand still when that starts). He tries to leave pretty quickly after that, because jerking off in the woods while there’s an Alpha out there wouldn’t be his best idea. 

It’s only a matter of time- two years, precisely- before his strength will crumble in the face of Stiles’ perfection. Not that he would have him, necessarily, re: above mentioned fear.  
Not even Derek’s abs would save him. 

*****

Because Derek is an idiot occasionally, he gets caught by a Wolfsbane bullet when Kate rolls back into town, like nothing has ever happened. He sits there for a moment, contemplating the fact that he’s going to die in a matter of hours. The worst part of the matter is that he’s just bone-deep tired, and for a moment even contemplates letting it happen. Just letting it all go. 

But then an image runs through his mind, slowly. 

Stiles and Derek lie in his bed, just sleeping. Derek is curled around Stiles, mouth pressed against the nape of his neck and they are wrapped around each other, tangled together, as close as they can get. Stiles’ heart is against his chest and one arm is curled around Derek’s waist, to keep him close, or maybe he just wants him to stay there. It’s so very warm and sweet, and the image leaves Derek dizzy (although that could just be the bullet). But it reminds him, that he was made for Stiles, his body was made to keep Stiles warm and safe, and he wants to be around for that damn image to happen. 

*****

He goes to Scott and Stiles. He knows that Scott will help him, but he’s unsure about Stiles, and that hurts. More than the freaking bullet in his arm. 

He drags himself through the school after an evening of walking, and it’s only after he scratches some annoying dick of a kid that he really begins to panic. 

He staggers out of the school, and he just smells Stiles on the next burst of wind. He follows that scent, like he was born to do, comfortingly familiar in the crowd of stupid kids and doesn’t even realise when he walks out in front of the Jeep. 

Derek’s legs give out on him and he collapses before the Jeep, slamming into the asphalt. For a moment, he’s terrified that Stiles will hit him, but no, the Jeep comes to a shuddering stop. 

Suddenly Scott’s in front of him, yelling that he can’t do this here, because he apparently wanted to collapse in front of his mate’s car surrounded by a bunch of teenagers. He feels his humanity begin to slip and bright blue leaks into his eyes, while his teeth grow. A second later, he’s in the jeep, scowling. Stiles emotions are leaking everywhere- annoyance, anxiety, as well as that maddening scent of want. 

“I hate you so much for this,” he snaps at Scott, and starts the Jeep, skidding away from the scene. Derek can’t hear a lie in his words, which hurts, dammit. His mate isn't supposed to hate him; he didn't even think that was really possible. Apparently it is. 

He grits his teeth and prepares himself for a draining journey. 

*****

He can feel the Wolfsbane burning in his veins, but it’s nothing in comparison to the way Stiles is making him feel. 

“And by the way, he’s starting to smell.” His voice is dripping disdain and it’s complaining. He’s shooting dark looks at Derek. 

“Like what?” Derek hears Scott ask. He’s mentally begging Stiles not to let him die, while still comprehending the fact his actual perfection. It hits him again, like a bunch of rocks: his jaw is clenched, the line smooth and strong, while his dark eyelashes contrast his flawless, red cheeks. He’s surprised by how much he wants to kiss him. 

“Like death,” Stiles hisses, and Derek is honest-to-God scared. What if Stiles kicks him out of the car and leaves him to die by the side of the road? He swallows back terror. He’s genuinely in agony, miserable, enduring agonising pain and shoved face first with the knowledge that Stiles doesn’t like him (even though he thinks he’s attracted to Derek, a fact that he’s usually pretty proud of). 

He’s caught between wanting to demand WHY (even though it’s nowhere near the important thing right now) and howling in anguish. He also wants to do bad things to Stiles, but that’s the stupid little part of him talking again. He’s frustrated to say the least. The phone call ends with the agreement that they’re going to the Animal Clinic, and Derek tries not to see the irony in that. 

He’s making groaning sounds as he shifts in his seat, raising his deadened arm a little. He can smell Stiles’ anxiety, overwhelmingly sweet in the car, in spite of his words. Derek just doesn’t understand; his wolf is comforted by the scents, trusting his nose, but Derek is looking at the human, and he’s worried. 

*****

He can’t fully stand, but he’s pleased with the fact that Stiles moves to help him the second they stop in the parking lot. He leans against Stiles, pressing his hands on his shoulders, muscles hard under his shirt and the groans Derek’s making aren’t just in pain. Stiles ducks away as soon as they step inside and the lights flicker on a minute later.  
His feet move without meaning to, and he collapses in agony against a bag of rabbit food. 

“Scott needs to bring me the bullet,” he points out, in case it hadn’t occurred to either of them. And Stiles is supposed to be smart. Although his scent is really strong (in a really, really good way) and making Derek feel a little giddy and stupid himself, so he can’t judge. 

“Why?” Stiles’ voice falters, and he looks absolutely terrified. 

“Because I’m going to die without it,” he says, as gentle as he can manage. His eyes meet Stiles’ and he’s trying to say everything he wants to just in case he can’t, later on; the fact that he is in love with Stiles and that he is his future. He’s trying to communicate this (more difficult than first expected), eyes earnest, while Stiles is still digesting the news that he could die; his scent shifts into panic mode for the first time this evening. 

“No you’re not,” he says firmly, hands fluttering into fists, pulse unsteady but he thinks it’s because he’s nervous, not anything else- not a lie. At least he hopes not because he’s basing a lot of faith in this one statement. “You’re Derek Hale.” 

“Nice that you noticed,” he grunts in response, even though it hurts like a mother fucker to even breathe. Saying anything is a major effort. Stiles almost laughs at that, though, so it’s worth it. He pulls Derek to his feet, fingers burning lines of warmth onto his skin. 

He’s pulling him through the doorway and Derek’s sweaty skin (because he stripped off his shirt) is pressed against the cool table. An idea hits him, and before he even realises it, he’s got Stiles pulled as close to him as he can manage, his scent driving Derek insane. 

He pukes, and it clears his head a little. It finally hits him that he’s going to die though, so he screams at Stiles to just hurry up and do it, because he can feel the Wolfsbane climbing towards his heart. 

He vaguely recollects Scott coming in but he passes out to remember anything apart from grabbing the damn bullet, and falling against Stiles, who shifts out the way. He’s unconscious before he even hits the ground.

He wakes up to Stiles’ fingers lingering against his mouth, his cheeks, and he wonders that if this is heaven, why is it so freaking painful? He’s embarrassed as he’s jolted back into reality and Stiles holds his hand as he helps him up. 

*****

He manages to heal pretty quickly, although it’s sheer agony, and Derek’s done keg stands before that have gone wrong. He knows pain, physically, his pain threshold is like a decadently decorated hotel, and emotionally, he’s off the scales. Something he’s good at. Yay. But he scowls at Stiles, because he’s irritated, and Stiles is just so frustrating. He’s standing there and Derek loves him with everything he is, and the kid has no freaking idea. He doesn’t even know (because unfortunately he’s not a mind-reader, and Derek is definitely blaming him for that). 

*****

Later on, after more fun hell from the Alpha, Scott (the genius) decides to go and make Derek the number one wanted felon in the state. Because he’s a nice, nice guy. 

Derek’s caught between wanting to thank and kill Scott for this opportunity. He grumbles to himself that he takes care of Stiles all the time (whether he knows or not is irrelevant) so it wouldn’t kill him to take care of him for once. He’s listening to his instincts, and they’re pointing at the tall, surprisingly muscled madness that is Stiles, and he’s not going to ever complain about that. 

He knows Stiles leaves his window open a small amount, so he climbs the roof (all the while wondering why this feels right and natural, he’s doing something called breaking and entering, it shouldn’t feel as normal as breathing) and slips in the window. The room’s surprisingly tidy, the desk littered with books (shocker) but otherwise neat. He settles himself in the chair opposite Stiles’ desk and prepares himself for a long wait. 

Who in the universe spends seven hours of their day at school? Why would a school day last that long? Does it teach you to survive? No. Does it teach you to fight? No. He’s grinding his teeth in irritation at his old high school. 

Stiles finally walks in his room, but Derek’s already found this nice hiding spot behind the door, in case his dad follows. He uses the opportunity to check Stiles out, because he can never do that enough. 

His jeans are tight, in a really nice way, and he is wiry, even he can see that, even though Stiles is wearing a fairly thick coat. His skin is flawless, dotted with marks that Derek just wants to memorise and kiss, while his mouth should really be illegal. It just makes him want to bite and take. 

He hears Stiles’ dad outside, calling for him, and he freezes. Stiles turns around lazily, and finally spots Derek. 

“Hey…hey Derek,” he says in shock, loudly, and Derek gestures at him to go and speak to his father. Why did he have to announce Derek’s arrival? 

He can’t be found in Stiles’ bedroom, because he is the biggest jailbait in the entire town. Shit, this is why he stayed away.

He freezes but gestures for Stiles to do the intelligent thing and go and speak to his father, before he comes into his room and spots the twenty four year old hiding behind the door. 

He stands there, getting angrier and angrier, except it’s not really anger; Stiles is being funny, because he’s trying to be serious. His scent is shocked, but there’s an undercurrent of pleased underneath that. And there’s so much of that scent in his room, it’s like a freaking sauna; stifling. Derek wants to groan but having an erection in Stiles' bedroom while his father stands outside is not the best idea. What is it about Stiles that makes him get hard, for God’s sake? 

Stiles ducks back into his room and Derek’s acting on pure instinct; he pushes Stiles against the door, recognising that he does it a little too hard with Stiles’ flinch, but presses himself into Stiles’ space anyway. Their faces are mere inches apart.

“If you say one word-” he begins to threaten, because he has to; he doesn’t know whether or not Stiles would throw him to the wolves (irony is that the wolves are the humans). 

“Like what? Dad, get your gun because Derek Hale is in my room?” Stiles licks his lips, and Derek notes that his eyes are literally fastened on Derek’s lips. His eyes drop as a result, glazing over his face, realising he’s never been this close to it before, and this is the stuff of his fantasies; he can spot the freckles Stiles has below his eyes, that almost seem to form a mask. Stiles’ red mouth drops open, slick with saliva, still staring at Derek’s lips.

What a little shit. 

*****

Derek manages to let Stiles go, but with major difficulty; his eyes keep dropping to his lips now (not that they didn’t before, but he could be subtle about it. Now he can’t). He sits opposite Stiles’ desk while he calls some kid from his class who can apparently get through any firewall; including the President’s (apparently he tried when he was like thirteen). They chatter about small things, like the clues that are leading to the Alpha, Scott’s incompetence and then it’s just Derek asking Stiles random stuff about his life, mostly focussing on lacrosse. 

Stiles is cooperative, but that scent of want, especially when Derek’s dangled like a mouse in front of a boa and has to change his shirt five times until he finds one that fits. Derek just likes the fact that all Stiles’ shirts will now smell like him. He eventually finds one, and decides that he’s gonna keep the shirt.

*****

Driving to the hospital is an interesting experience. Stiles is worried, nervous even, because as Derek realises, this woman is the closest thing to a mother that he has. Not that he would say it out loud, because to him that would be a betrayal. 

But he doesn’t want Scott to have to lose his mom, and if she’s in cahoots with the Alpha (interesting that he’s never used the word cahoots before) something will have to be done. They swap numbers, Stiles letting out a burst of happiness-scent when they do. Derek has to fight the grin. 

He slams Stiles’ forehead into the steering wheel, hard enough to hurt but not bruise, because Derek is not a piece of meat and he was being dangled in front of Danny like an object, which he’s not. His hand doesn’t linger on the back of Stiles’ neck. It doesn’t. 

“What was that for?” Stiles splutters. 

“You know what that was for,” Derek says back. He knows he is flirting but he doesn’t know how to stop. He is apparently an actual fourth grader. “Go. GO.” 

Stiles gets out, muttering about asshole werewolves who should just learn to keep their paws to themselves. Derek’s not going to take it personally. 

*****

It’s only until Stiles is on the phone, telling him that his comatose uncle is no longer in his room that Derek realises. Peter is the Alpha. It all makes perfect sense to him now. 

“Stiles, it’s him! Get out of there NOW.” He barks into the phone, keeping it on the line as he sprints from the Jeep. He’s running fast, throwing himself up four flights of stairs to his uncle’s floor. 

He elbows the nurse in the face and stares ahead at his uncle, that familiar smirk on his face. Instead of making Derek feel faintly mischievous, he wants to throw up. That’s the Hale smile. 

“She’s a psychotic bitch helping you kill people. Get out of the way,” he snaps at Stiles. 

Stiles swears and ducks down immediately, leaking panic scent everywhere, making Derek’s nose tingle, making him want to fight and protect. 

Peter makes some cheap shot about Laura, and before he even realises, he’s thrown himself at the man. 

He’s thrown around like a little rag doll, smashing into the hospital; as it turns out, walls aren’t really made for werewolves to slam into. He’s bleeding a lot, he thinks, but it’s all tempered by the horror he has for Stiles. After Peter tosses him through the window, near to Stiles, he realises that Peter is walking near him, which Derek is nowhere near alright with. He drags himself away, over glass, to get him away from Stiles. 

The glass cuts into his palms and stays there, even after Peter heals himself fully, in the most dramatic way he knows how. Peter was always the drama queen of the family.  
He’s pulled to his feet by his uncle, who nicely wipes dust off his coat. Great. Now his uncle’s saved him a trip to the dry cleaners, it’s only a matter of getting Stiles out of the hospital while he can. Peter’s making little glances at Stiles, who’s almost standing up, but looks as unstable as a corgi puppy. Short feet.

“Please,” Derek half begs. He never says please. “I’ll join you.” His voice is serious, sharp. His uncle understands though. 

Peter smirks. “Of course you will. Now, hurry up. We’ve got places to be, people to see.” 

Derek wants to roll his eyes but he just nods. He ducks over to Stiles, who is still cowered in fear. He urges him up and yanks him out of the room. 

“You need to go.” 

“But Derek he’s the-” Stiles splutters, making angry gestures at Peter. He waves in response. 

“I know,” his voice is low. He wants to get Stiles out of there before Peter does anything worse. “Just go.” 

Stiles begins to object, but Derek sends him a begging glance, trying to say everything he needs to. His hand snakes out and absorbs some of Stiles’ pain, while he can. An apology for the steering wheel incident. 

The kid gasps a little, but rolls his eyes at Derek’s face. Without anything more (he is cursing under his breath) he leaves, tripping over his feet as he goes. 

“Nice taste,” Peter comments to Derek. A compliment. His once comatose Alpha uncle is complimenting him on his choice of mates. 

This should be interesting.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and problems just don't mix very well.

As it turns out, Peter is fully healed for a matter of five days. On the fifth day, Stiles and that stupid kid from the school (Derek’s established that his name is Jackson, as in Samuel L.) set him on fire with Molotov cocktails, with the kind of practiced accuracy that Derek worries about. 

He’s gone through hell, thanks to Kate. He’s been tortured, with only the knowledge that Stiles would come for him to keep him sane. As it turns out, it’s Scott, but that means that Stiles had something to do with it. He wants to kill her in any case. 

It seems only moments later that Peter’s dead, burned out and babbling on the ground. Derek’s feet are moving instinctively towards Peter, and it’s like generations of his family are staring at him, whispering at him to take it. Take what he wasn’t meant to have, but is now his birthright. To kill the already dying Alpha; the only remainder of his family. 

Peter makes some comment about the scent of the Alpha already on him, and that’s a good sign, Derek thinks; that’ll mean that it will take. He’ll become Alpha. 

That’s enough apparently for him, because he slashes forwards with his claws, skin and tendon and vein ripping as easily as tissue paper. Peter makes one last gurgle, and the red fades from his eyes.

Then Derek’s on fire. Not literally of course (although human torch was his favourite character) but his skin is shifting, burning up, and Derek has to force back the change. His will is as strong as ever, though, and he feels like the Hulk, which has to be a good sign. 

He turns to where Stiles and Scott stand, and growls, “I’m the Alpha now.” 

If the red eyes weren’t already an indication. 

Stiles stumbles forwards, towards him, and he snarls, the sound ripping through his throat painfully. His wolf just wants to drag him away (makes it worse that Derek knows Stiles would go willingly) and hide him in a nice, cosy den somewhere, where Derek can kill deer for him every day (or rabbits if he’s sensitive to the deaths of a few Bambi). 

But Derek can’t let that happen; he’s not safe, he doesn’t know the extent of his strength and he won’t put Stiles in that position, because Stiles for all his wiry strength is still so fragile and perfect and human. 

He rips himself away from the scene, from the Stiles scents of fearwantexhilaratedpanic. 

*****

Building up a pack without Stiles as the focal point is the most complicated thing that Derek has ever done. It’s going against all of his instincts, and maybe that’s why he’s unsure how to treat them? Because Stiles would be the remedy to Derek, in some situations, when he’s trying to train them and make them submit with brute force- Stiles would provide the familial touch that every single pack needs. He would bring comfort and warmth, effortlessly, because while Stiles doesn’t appear to be dark, or dangerous (on the surface), he would kill for the people he loves, and he loves fiercely. 

Derek needs that kind of strength right now, particularly when handling sensitive teenagers, such as Isaac freaking Lahey.

*****

“Keep this up and your car’s gonna get jealous,” Stiles mutters as Derek clambers in the front seat with the flimsy excuse that Isaac’s in a prison cell for killing his father (which he didn’t do, for the record) and it’s the full moon. Derek shoots him a look. “Just sayin’, you have a perfectly good Camaro. Why aren’t we using it?” 

Because your car smells like you, Derek wants to snap back, but that’s probably not the response Stiles wants, although Derek’s tempted to say it just to see his face. 

What comes out instead is a terse, “You were already on the way there.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes but doesn’t pull him up on his lie. Derek can even hear the lie in his own words; it’s pathetic how he can’t even convince himself. 

“So…new Alpha…new pack,” Stiles says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His eyes meet Derek’s briefly and he can almost smell Stiles’ curiosity. 

“Yeah. Improvement on the last one.” Derek replies. Stiles snorts, and Derek can hear that the sound is involuntary. Forcing laughter out of his mate feels like a punch in the gut. Just great. 

“You don’t say,” Stiles says, glancing at Derek again. He can feel these little glances like falling, burning ash on his skin. 

“How’s, um, Lydia?” Derek asks. He can hear the dislike in his voice. 

“Still alive, which is a plus. Still human, still unaware of my existence and werewolves.” Stiles’ voice is miserable and Derek can hear the wariness in it. 

“That must…suck.” Awkward is awkward. He’s torn between wanting to high-five someone in glee because Stiles is still single and being angry that Stiles is suffering and still in love with this girl who’s the closest thing to a fox Derek’s ever seen in a human. Derek’s always hated foxes, they're vermin and anyone who says otherwise is just kidding themselves. 

“No, really?” And there’s Stiles’ natural state, sarcastic. 

Shame that Derek finds it attractive instead of irritating; he has to pretend to be irritated. Stiles is going to get a major shock when he realises that Derek will do anything for him, including tasks involving nudity and glitter and isn’t just a Sourwolf with a distinct lack of tolerance for Stiles. 

What’s worse is that Derek would do anything Stiles asked. 

He’s deep in his thoughts for the rest of the journey to the station, driven into silent awe by the sensation of Stiles rapping along to some song about whistling. At the end of the song, Derek’s not entirely sure if the song’s about a whistle. He’s turned on, either way. 

They park outside the recently renovated station; Stiles lets out a sigh of pure relief when he sees that his dad’s cruiser isn’t there. 

Stiles begins to strategise while Derek inputs. Things hit a rough patch when Derek has to remind Stiles that he’s not actually a criminal, he was exonerated, but it’s the reminder that takes him back to his sister’s death. There’s a sharp, sudden bolt of grief which leaves him momentarily breathless. But Stiles still goes on. 

“What’s your plan, then?” 

“To distract her,” Derek points out the obvious, and turns to climb out of the car. Stiles, having none of this, puts his hand on Derek’s shoulder and he’s certain that he goes into shock for a few seconds. He’s an Alpha and this is a declaration of something; he should be going Black Swan crazy right about now, but nope, he’s content. He’d be wagging his tail if he were Changed. 

Stiles does a once over while Derek’s trying not to be entirely obvious. He’s failing; especially when Stiles starts to freaking pour out scents of WANTWANTEXCITEDWANT. Because apparently he wants to choke Derek to death with his scent. 

“What are you going to do, huh? Punch her in the face?” Stiles asks, but makes this growling sound, which makes Derek three hundred per cent done. He’s so turned on it’s painful. Don’t look down, he begs Stiles silently. It’s ridiculous that he’s got a boner from Stiles trying to be a wolf and growling, but there you have it. 

Stiles is just so…freaking hot, Derek’s just this close from fanning himself with his bare hands. He chokes out a laugh instead of jumping Stiles, although it’s a close call. 

“I’m thinking about punching you in the face,” Derek says, and there’s the deep voice, deeper than he’d intended. Phone sex operator Derek Hale at your service. The undertones are more than subtle, but Stiles looks wounded and confused instead. 

Derek refuses the temptation to stamp his feet in a temper tantrum (he was never that kind of kid anyway, it was always Laura and Stephen who were good at the tantrums while  
Helen had a talent for projectile vomiting) but gets out of the car and slams it in the face of his stupidly oblivious mate (and it’s nothing to do with the fact that Stiles smells even better when he’s angry. Really). 

He knows that this woman will fall for the charm and the smile; she’s not as difficult as Stiles. 

“Just don’t kill her, alright?” Stiles says, quiet enough that only Derek can hear. 

He shrugs his shoulders in a maybe-maybe-not kind of motion and that brings out another little growl, which makes him shiver all over again. 

Fuck everything. 

*****

Derek saunters in, and he’s having difficulty remembering how to flirt. Opening with, so, do you come here often? Won’t really work. He’s not going to do this right. He’s going to talk about gas. 

All that’s coming to mind is Dr Sexy and of course, that’s what his mouth spits out. 

He scents Stiles’ irritation, displeasure and jealousy in the air, but he brushes it off as nothing; maybe Stiles has a crush on the deputy. Even that’s more likely than Stiles actually liking him, because while he may find Derek attractive, there’s nothing in his scent that hints at actual feelings towards Derek. 

He’s so wrapped up in his attempts at flirting that when he resurfaces, the panicked thrumming of Stiles’ heart hits him like a sledgehammer. He’s instinctive in the way that he launches over the desk, uses the Vulcan manoeuvre on the woman (he knew there was a reason why he liked Spock) and sprints into the hallway. But, hell, it’s like a freaking maze. 

So Derek plays Find-the-mate-scent, the more violent cousin of the good-old Treasure Hunt. 

He first spots the needle of Wolfsbane and it crunches satisfyingly underfoot. Next it’s the Hunter, the one who scared Stiles, and Derek’s pleased to note that his Beta took him out for him. But then, Isaac, sensing Stiles’ fear, lurches towards Derek’s mate. 

Pure, animalistic Alpha rage takes over, and Derek fucking ROARS. 

It’s deafening even to his ears, and he’s certain that he has never roared that loud before. He’s having a Lion King moment. He’s furious, and the Alpha within him wants to render Isaac entirely into submission, using piercing claws and teeth. 

The meaning of the roar is clear and powerful, Stay away from him. He’s just thankful that Stiles can’t understand him. 

Isaac curls into a bull, while Derek feels the red bleed out from his eyes and his fangs retract, even though he can’t remember them coming out. 

“How did you do that?” Stiles gulps out. Derek can almost feel Stiles’ gaze on his back, he’s so hypersensitive; the prospect of losing Stiles, when it’s all gone so very wrong, has left him feeling raw. 

“I’m the Alpha,” he states, willing Stiles to be impressed. 

Stiles’ eyebrows fly up, and he’s clearly impressed. Derek’s assaulted by the scent of Stiles getting worked up, and he breathes in long and hard. This is the scent he’ll use later on, in bed. 

He helps Stiles up, hand lingering in his for a moment or so longer than strictly necessary. 

“You alright?” He’s using that sultry voice again and he’s just realised he’s puffing out his chest, like he’s a crab or something in its mating season. Wonderful.

Stiles wipes down barely-there dust and gapes at Derek. 

“Sure, I’m peachy,” he snarks back. 

Derek may or may not roll his eyes, because he really doesn’t have the motivation to get fully annoyed at Stiles. He just wants to lick and pet and comfort his mate and the temptation is so strong, it’s literally pain, just under the skin, making his skin a little too tight. He has to get out of there, but that would mean leaving Stiles alone. 

“Go,” Stiles says, nodding towards the exit. Derek blinks; he’s giving him permission to leave (not that he needs it really, he is in theory an Alpha) even though this situation will be hell to explain to his father. He’s effectively choosing Derek over his father and Scott, which Derek’s a little too smug about. 

Derek makes a surprised half sound- vaguely an okay- but growls at Isaac to get up. The Beta slinks out, curly head low, and as Derek passes the Hunter he kicks his head, one more for luck, and to keep him knocked out for just a bit longer. 

He pauses in the doorway and looks back at Stiles. 

The kid’s just standing there staring at him and Derek wants to kiss him so badly. He just wants to kiss his cheek, the one that’s turning scarlet red under the weight of Derek’s gaze. 

Instead, he says, “thank you.” 

A small, honest pleased smile curves across Stiles’ face. Derek wants to always be the cause of that smile, but he just nods at Stiles and leaves, leaving behind a slightly awed Stiles, not to mention a severely damaged Hunter behind. 

*****

Derek’s not entirely sure why he chooses to change Erica. He knows that she loves Stiles, that’s in her scent when he watches Stiles and Scott drop her off at the hospital. So she’d be a good addition to his pack, in theory, but there’s also something about the vulnerability of her that makes him want to Change her, because she would value the meaning of Pack and wouldn’t say no.

Changing Boyd has to be the best decision he’s made all year. The kid’s reasonable (mostly), smart and can keep his cool, in contrast to the other pack members. Derek immediately likes him, which is impressive, because he doesn’t like many people. Boyd’s one of the chosen in more than one way. 

He regrets Changing Erica almost immediately, though, when she slams a car-part into Stiles’ skull, when he just asked her to distract him, not injure his mate. He yells at her afterwards, but she just rolls her eyes and purrs something along the lines of, he didn’t look like he minded. 

Derek has to go and check on Stiles, and sees the stormy bruise that’s welled up on his creamy forehead. Later on, he sneaks into his room and removes the pain. The bruise fades almost instantly, leaving Derek feeling angry and just tired at the entire situation, even though the fun’s only just begun. 

*****

Derek’s nervous. He’s got to talk to Stiles, and he has no idea what to say; you remember when you were attacked by that lizard thing? Remember how you rang Scott instead of me but I waited with you (even though you didn’t notice me there) until he bothered to turn up? Yeah, I need to remind you of that wonderful experience. It’s ridiculous how nervous he is. His thoughts have thoughts. 

He’s broken out of his little trance when Erica drags Stiles in, by the ear. He’s making a pained face, but that’s just a Stiles-I-may-or-may-not-be-actually-hurting-but-instead-being-dramatic face, so he’s not too worried. Okay, he is, but he shoves that to the back of his head. He’s irritated with Erica, but doesn’t let it show on his face. 

“Stiles,” he says, nodding his head towards the flushed teenager. 

“Derek,” the kid mimics, although his voice cracks and he flushes, so he doesn’t really have a leg to stand on either. 

“What did you see at the mechanics garage?” And there it is, the sultry voice that comes out whenever he is near Stiles. He sounds like a phone sex operator, it’s not even funny anymore, although he can practically feel Erica’s smirk. She can smell everything he’s giving out. Fuck. 

“A number of EPA violations that I’m seriously considering reporting?” Stiles offers, and Derek’s smile is involuntary, this is a serious, serious investigation, there should be no smiling. At least not on Derek’s end, he would never say no to a Stiles smile. So to get things back on track, he destroys a basketball. To demonstrate that claws can be dangerous and shouldn’t be tempted (although Derek wants to run his claws carefully down Stiles’ front, all the way to his dick, to show him that he won’t hurt him, but that’s for another time perhaps). 

“Holy God,” Stiles says, but he’s leaking scents of attraction and fear, like usual (which does actually worry Derek now that he’s thinking about it) so he doesn’t do anything else. 

“Let’s try that again.” And his eyes are making an appreciative trek up and down Stiles’ body, which is hidden by a fucking sweat suit, which Derek is not okay with. Stiles should be semi-naked at all times, preferably, or all naked, Derek’s open to either idea. 

“Fine,” he huffs out, rolling his eyes. Derek is hit again with the faint idea that Stiles doesn’t respect him as Alpha, which should really bother him, but his Alpha-side (otherwise known as Bert from here on out) is getting the metaphorical version of a belly-rub, doused in Stiles’ presence and scent. 

He’s got to will himself not to make sex eyes at Stiles. When will the agony stop? 

*****

“Is that enough?” Stiles asks, only moments later. “Because there’s someone I really need to talk to,” Stiles points out, and Derek shoots him a glare that means, really, Stiles? You don’t smell or sound like you want to go anywhere. “Ugh, fine.” He snaps, rolling his eyes again, but he didn’t put up much of a fight so Derek counts it as a win. It pleases him that 

Stiles understands what his glares mean, but he’s annoyed about the fact that he doesn’t recognise what the sex eyes mean.

He freezes when the creature eventually shows up. It’s above Stiles and Derek wants to shield the kid with everything he has. He’s pleased as punch (his mom used to say it and eight years later Derek finally understands the saying) when Stiles stumbles behind him. 

The creature drops before them, and Derek notes that Stiles was absolutely correct in identifying him. He’s going to make a great deputy- or even Sheriff- one day.  
His instincts are driving him insane- he’s screaming internally, but he does the one thing he has to do. He drops in front of Stiles and snarls at the thing (Derek really needs a better name for it…maybe the dieting Hulk will do) to stay away from Stiles. 

He vaguely notes that Erica flies off somewhere. No splash though, so it’s all good. Or not quite because Stiles stands fucking still; in shock, he thinks, but he has to get Stiles out of there. That takes precedence over the dieting Hulk. 

“GO!” He shouts, pushing back at the teen, who’s staring at Derek like he can’t quite believe that he would try to protect him. He feels a blade at the back of his neck, thin and searing cold. His hand flies to the wound as he stands up. 

“Derek, your neck,” he hears Stiles say, but things are going fuzzy; his knees buckle. 

He hears Stiles curse and then his arms are around Derek, surrounding him in matecomfortpanicStiles scents that just strengthen him and root him to his consciousness. But his body is numb; he can’t move anything. 

“Call Scott,” he calls out, stumbling as Stiles drags him away from the pool as fast as he can. Because Scott is the only one who could fight that thing- Stiles, for all his perfection- is hopelessly and wonderfully human. 

Stiles snaps something in response and he fumbles for his phone. In this moment, Derek tumbles from his grasp, towards the pool. He braces himself and shouts his mate’s name as fast as he can. 

He’s embraced in ice cold water immediately, falling like a rock. The benefits of having three per cent body fat are endless, but one fun thing is that he sinks in water; nothing to keep him floating. 

He feels Stiles’ hand wrap around his waist, the other snatches his hand and despite the fact that they’re in ice cold water; Derek feels a jolt of white-hot attraction, pure electricity. 

The mate principle needs to be a little more sensitive to conditions. 

His head breaks the surface of the water and he gulps in air. While being a werewolf means that he has a lot of stamina (which will come in useful, later on with Stiles, he thinks) he is not a vampire from the Twilight series (damn Laura for forcing those books on him) and can’t go without breathing indefinitely. 

Stiles has slung one of Derek’s arms over his shoulder, and is holding perilously close to his hand, just by his wrist. It’s keeping Derek warm. His other hand is pressed against Derek’s side, hands curled into the material of his thin shirt. He can feel Stiles’ feet, beating steadily in the pool, keeping both of them afloat, although it must be killing him. 

They snipe for a while about the fact that Derek’s probably going to drown, but Stiles isn’t scared about that, he’s worried about the thing that can’t even swim is going to kill them. How, exactly? Derek wants to snarl. It’s not a fucking Hitmonlee. But Stiles has no idea that Derek knows way too much about Pokémon, Marvel, Whedonverse or DC because he’s too busy being obsessed with Lydia. 

So obsessed, in fact, that when Derek tries to talk rationally to him he shoves his relationship with her in Derek’s face (or supposed relationship, because she’s apparently really stupid for someone so smart and doesn’t like Stiles). 

It’s like being smacked down by the hand of God. 

“I’m gonna assume that she’s cold-blooded to make myself feel better,” he says dreamily. Perhaps he’s trying to distract himself, and Derek, and it’s working. Stiles is busy thinking of Lydia’s hair follicles (which are apparently strawberry blonde, not ginger, but Derek’s not sure if there’s a difference) while Derek’s getting distracted by the thickness of Stiles eyelashes, made all the more prominent by the water. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are wet, like he’s been licking them. Derek wants to bite at them. 

Derek has to remind himself that this is not a situation in which it is anywhere near appropriate to get an erection. 

*****

Stiles hangs onto him for hours, it seems, turning the pressure against his stomach and wrist into one, pleasant burning ache. Derek’s kept warm by the press of his body against his, and he can’t remember the last time he was this close to someone (in the ways that count, he’s already repressed Erica’s attempt). 

Derek feels rather than hears Stiles eventual exhaustion. He admits that he’s tired (which he never does) and Derek knows that when Stiles’ stubbornness has worn down, that’s when he should be worried. He pleads with him to not let him go, and Stiles wants Derek to trust him. 

Trust him? When he’s just gone on for two hours about Lydia (okay, it was probably only a few minutes but it felt that long) and talked about Scott and how difficult they’re finding it all. Derek appreciates that Stiles tried to talk to him, tried to open up to him, but he’s basically affirmed that Scott’s life would be a lot easier if he wasn’t a werewolf, and Derek wasn’t in his life. He didn’t come out and say it, but then again, he didn’t have to. 

Derek points out that Stiles needs him to survive (and he fights his own hypocrisy at this point, because it’s really, really Derek who needs Stiles. A wolf without an anchor is a dead wolf and Derek needs the steady beat of Stiles’ heart, the splatter of moles across his face and his stupidly good scent to keep him whole and sane) and fight the dieting Hulk, but Stiles’ argument makes him pause for a moment. 

“So that’s why I’ve been holding you up for the past two hours?” Stiles’ voice snags on the words, and Derek’s struck dumb for a second before his smartass mouth kicks in (thank you Hale sass). He doesn’t let himself think about it too long, but why else would Stiles hold him up? Unless- unless- 

He just snaps something affirmative about Stiles needing him and not letting him go in response. 

Stiles stares at him with wounded eyes that honestly cut Derek deeper than he thought he went, before his mouth curls into a stubborn line. Derek’s scared at that line. 

He shouts Stiles’ name but the kid drops him anyway. Derek has time to gulp a quick breath before he’s getting reacquainted with the bottom of that pool. 

He glances around, wondering if anyone will save him, or if he’s really alone. No-one comes; news just in, Derek Hale is really alone, even though he has a pack. The salt burns at his eyes. 

He closes his eyes and just waits for death to arrive. Stiles’ face is imprinted on the back of his eyes, just looking at him, and Derek can’t be the only one who finds it ironic that his name will be the last thing he ever says, and the last thing he ever sees will be his face. 

Only seconds later, he feels familiar hands (the only hands he ever wants to feel on him) curl in his shirt and yank him upwards. A small, smile spreads across his face, he can feel it, and he hope Stiles can see it, because it’s the most genuine smile he’s given in years. 

Stiles is hugging Derek body to his, his arms like lines of fire all over his upper body, burning him, and branding him as Stiles’ mate. Derek’s head is tucked under Stiles’ jaw, the skin that he usually wants to nip at, but it’s ridiculously good how his smooth face feels against the top of Derek’s head. Stiles is gripping him so tight, and their bodies are pressed together; Derek’s full of these sensations and they are driving his senses as insane as the volume being uneven on a television. 

It’s a good way to die, Derek thinks, especially when Stiles reveals that he couldn’t get hold of Scott. Derek wants to shoot the kid with a bb gun while he’s Changing.

Only minutes later, Derek realises that not only does he have sensations all over his body, but that his legs are twitching, and he can move them slightly, in little kicks. He’s so tired, though, and he’s so very comfortable, that he does the selfish thing. He stays still and continues to bask in Stiles presence and scent (which smells stronger and better when he’s wet). 

The pain and joy of this odd situation is broken moments later, after Scott finally turns up and tries to fight the dieting Hulk, after Stiles and Derek have fallen into the pool all over again. They’re tossed onto the hard, linoleum flooring, which makes Derek blink as his head cracks against the surface. 

He peers at Stiles, but he’s out cold for a second. Derek gingerly touches his face when he thinks no one is looking, but drags himself away; their legs are still tangled together though. 

It hits him that the dieting Hulk is really a Kanima, and Helen’s little kid fairy tales are floating through his head when Scott stumbles over to both Derek and now awake Stiles. He gives his best friend a hug and Derek has to turn away. 

*****

It’s far too difficult to move away fully, over to Erica, and help her up. He goes and stands under a hair dryer (to dry up) while she fixes her makeup in the bathroom. 

Minutes later, they’re in the parking lot, and Derek’s trying to remember everything he knows from overhearing the bedtime stories his mom used to tell Helen, which is in fact excruciatingly painful.

Stiles keeps interrupting, as if he needs Derek to not forget him and what they’ve just done. Derek doesn’t need reminding, he’s covered in Stiles’ scent, and debating whether or not to shower ever again. Derek shoots him dark, firm looks, because it’s far easier to pretend that he hates Stiles than to ever admit that he loves him. 

All that’s blown out of the window, though, when Derek forgets the word ‘abomination’, because he practiced for the SATs a few years back, and as it turns out, Beacon Hills high school lies, he doesn’t use words like incandescent enough to actually remember them. 

Derek’s just staring at Stiles in awe, he can feel it, and he knows he needs to stop. It just reminds him of his parents; they used to finish each others’ sentences. ALL THE TIME. He’s just staring at him in a way that should make Stiles realise just how much he means to him, how necessary and perfect and wanted he is, and for a moment Stiles looks like he knows. 

Then Stiles goes back to looking confused, casting his eyes away at the ground. Derek purses his lips and nods. 

He’s got his answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this, if you are, I'm still kind of in awe that people actually like my writing and this story even a little bit because this is literally my thought process throughout Season 2. Thank you <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek gets to deal with Stiles on top of him and his emotional issues.

Derek’s man enough to admit that he goes a little crazy, vis a vis revenge.

He’s certain that it’s Lydia. He waits outside the high school for what feels like a century, following Stiles heartbeat- because (he may or may not be a little bitter about this) wherever Stiles is, there Lydia will be. The kid could give Derek a run for his money, in the stalking Olympics. 

So he’s a little pre-emptive in wanting to murder Lydia. So sue him. 

It’s nothing to do with Stiles, honestly. It’s not like he wants to kill her. It’s not like when they were in the pool, and he could smell her on Stiles, through the haze of Chlorine and Stiles scent. Then he wanted to keep him away from her as long as he could. 

He’s frustrated that Scott thinks he knows everything- the kid is smart, but then there are people like Stiles and Lydia, and there’s no comparison. Derek can’t explain some things, and Scott is not pack. 

He can’t trust Scott yet; not fully, anyway, but has to make the kid understand, when he’s determined to believe that only he’s right- like with his theory about immunity, which just doesn’t make sense. He tries to use a common language with Scott; he’ll bring up Stiles, in small ways, ways that he hopes will get through to the kid. Like with Stiles saying Lydia’s cold blooded- it’s perceptive. 

Stiles is just meant to be in law enforcement, there’s no doubt, even though Derek can see the irony in that from a mile away, because he’s got no problem with breaking the law.

He lets them take Lydia back to the McCall house, means that he can dwell in anger and self-doubt for a couple more hours. Then they go and wait outside the house. Derek is acutely aware of Stiles’ heartbeat, especially when he sends in Isaac. He tells the Beta to be careful- he doesn’t want him hurt (or Argent, but she has a bow and arrow). 

He still has to heal his mate in his bed that night, to make the bruises fade. 

Sadly enough, his affections towards Stiles show no sign of ever fading.

*****

The next time Derek sees Stiles, it’s under even worse circumstances. He’d told Erica that she could try going after Scott or Stiles- although he has to work hard to cover the look of sheer horror on his face, and he freezes, caught in the terror. 

Because Erica loves Stiles, he can smell it on her. 

He can picture it too, the fun image comes with a horrible idea of watching Stiles fall in love with one of his Betas while Derek can’t do anything about it. He’s just full of horror. 

He mutters something vague before trying to remember how to breathe correctly.

But actually seeing Stiles; it’s when he’s trying to fix Erica, and he has to get someone to hold her on the floor, prop her up so he can snap it more cleanly. But Scott fails him (how unlike Scott), and Stiles ducks down to lift her up. He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and Derek’s struck by the image- it just proves what Derek’s been thinking all along, Stiles would be a good Alpha’s mate. 

Derek can’t really keep his eyes off Stiles, and only leaves when he can’t take anymore of the dizzying, cloying scent of Stiles and pack. 

He could get drunk on that scent. 

*****

The time after that is really just a blur. Derek’s been electrocuted, his pack is scattered, and worst of all; Stiles is just grinning at him. It’s horrible, in a very, very good way. Fuck everything to fuck (anger makes his brain ineloquent okay). He can hear Scott howling in agony, howling for help, and Derek’s instincts go nuts. 

He tries to convince Stiles, and the kid doesn’t understand, not really, but trusts Derek anyway and breaks the line of Mountain Ash. It makes Derek inexplicably happy that he just resorts to gestures, like the actual fourth grader he is; he presses lightly on Stiles’ shoulders as he sprints past- it’s a sign of affection, thank you and a STAY HERE all at one time. 

If only Stiles could really understand. 

(Actually, scratch that, it would be hell if he understood everything).

*****

It takes Derek precisely a minute to realise that he is well and truly fucked when his uncle pops out of the floorboards, like a daisy. The pain throbs in his arm, overwhelming, and Peter makes some comment about a party; Derek’s suddenly yanked backwards to his childhood, and his mom and Peter’s infamous family-in jokes (like with Derek’s fear of frogs). 

He stares into his uncle’s eyes- the Hale eyes- and suddenly Peter cracks him across the face. He should have anticipated the move- it was human slow- but Derek’s staring in shock. His head slams into the floorboards, and he’s out like a light. 

*****

He dreams, and this is the kind of dream he hasn’t had in years- it takes him back to his first few years in New York, back when he was still burning in the open would of the fire. 

The Hale house enfolds in front of him. 

It’s like he can see through the walls, because he watches Stiles- now older, filled out a little more- help his mom carry plates through to the dining room. Everything is achingly familiar. 

He can’t take his eyes off the image of Stiles and his mom joking around, smiling, obviously at ease with each other. His siblings are sitting at the table, joking around, while Derek’s watching himself walk in the room. Stiles’ face lights up and they share one easy, wonderful kiss, like it’s as easy as breathing, as natural. 

Derek- the real one, not the dream one- clenches his jaw and fights the impulse to howl. 

Because this is Derek’s life as it could have been, if he hadn’t wrecked everything with Kate. 

Everything fades into white as he forces back the tears. 

Then a flare of agony burns through his head as the sound of his name reverberates. 

*****

He wakes up to Doctor Deaton blowing a dog whistle into his ears, because the guy apparently thinks he’s a comedian. He may be a mysterious jackass, but he does tell Derek where to find Stiles and Scott, so he’s in Derek’s good books for now. 

Driving to the station is the time in which Derek spends worrying over what he’s going to say to the pair of kids, because apparently he’s been transported back into middle school, where he was all shyness and long deer-like limbs (yes, Derek can see the irony). 

He carefully parks his baby in the parking lot, noting that the cruiser’s out front, but the Jeep is not. Huh. So…Stiles’ dad drove Scott and Stiles there? He’s utterly confused and he’s trying to work out what’s going on as he walks through the station. 

He can smell blood, but he forces himself to walk onwards, because whatever’s going on, it’s his mate and his brother (technically speaking) that are in trouble. 

He knocks on the door (it’s been years since he’s done that) and it swings open to reveal Scott, who praises Jesus for some unknown reason, but it hits him as he sees Matt with a gun; Scott was worried that it would be someone important, maybe Allison or his mom, whereas with Derek he doesn’t really care if he’s here or not.

That hurts a surprising amount. 

He’s looking right ahead, right past Scott, to see Stiles’ reaction; because this is a moment where he can tell whether Stiles does care about him. With real feelings and everything.

The kid’s shocked, or horrified, Derek can’t tell the difference between them, but all he can see is that Stiles is not relieved, not in the same irritating way Scott is. So, for an instant, he’s happy.

Then he feels the slice of a blade at the back of his neck, ribbon thin, and he’s going down. He slams into the ground, all sensations still very much present, but unable to move anything; his fingers twitch feebly, but his legs are wooden blocks.

“This is the guy controlling the Kanima? This kid?” Derek demands, looking with disdain at the normal enough looking teenager. He can see a little evil in him though.

“Well, Derek, we can’t all be werewolves. Oh, I’ve learned a few things recently, about Hunters and Kanimas. It’s like a freaking Halloween party up in here every full moon. Well, apart from you Stiles. What do you turn into?” The kid’s sneering now, and Derek want to hit the kid in his extremities.

“Abominable snowman, but it’s more like a winter-time thing. You know, seasonal.” Stiles shoots out, and Derek’s face is curled into a smirk, he can feel it. Then Matt nods, and Stiles’ skin is cut with a faint snick.

“Bitch,” he chokes out, before slamming into Derek. It’s still too early for Derek to be able to handle that. Even though it’s 2am. The point is still valid. He’s not emotionally prepared for this.

“Get him off me,” Derek grunts out, because Stiles is heavy, even though Derek can see that his body can handle the weight, because it was made to, and that they fit together basically perfectly. It’s still too much to bear, the sensation of it.

“Oh, I don’t know Derek, I think you make a pretty good pair,” Matt grins and Derek wants to swear at him. 

Stiles’ heartbeat is going insane, and Derek could smell the panic from a mile away. His instincts are going insane- they’re entirely torn between the tongue lolling, tail wagging half that’s just really happy that Stiles is near him and the more practical half that’s panicking about how they’re going to make it out of this alive.

Derek presses his temple against Stiles’ for a moment, a clear but brief nuzzle. It means stay calm, I love you, and I will save you.

“But I can understand how frustrating it must be to feel so…helpless.” Matt acknowledges, smirking. He spotted the nuzzle. Shit. 

“Not so helpless.” Derek grits out, head clogged with Stiles’ scent. “Still got some teeth. Why don't you get down a little closer. See how helpless I am.” 

“Yeah, bitch,” Stiles urges on. 

But Stiles doesn’t understand.

Scott doesn’t either, because when Matt rips Stiles away from Derek, he can only lie there, powerless and frozen. His hand curls in the back of Stiles’ shirt, of its own accord, and Stiles’ hand grips at the same arm, squeezing bruises into it that fade immediately as Matt stands on Stiles’ chest. Derek is having his worst nightmare projected in 3D, right in front of him. It’s a swell experience.

Scott finally snaps into intelligence and Matt steps away from him. Stiles is gasping for air. 

Derek’s barely breathing himself, but pays attention when Matt snaps something about taking them in another room- Jackson gnashes his teeth and wiggles his claws in a twisted version of a wave.

“Who do you think you are, Lady Gaga?” Stiles grumbles. Derek forces out a short laugh but winces when Jackson scrapes his claws over the scruff of his neck and pulls him into the Sheriff’s office, ignoring his sounds of pain when’s slammed into doorjambs and furniture. 

His breath catches in his throat when Stiles is pulled through, because those claws are millimetres away from his neck. Derek would be biting off his own claws if he weren’t a wolfsicle currently. 

He attempts to explain the intricacies of becoming a Kanima, expecting Stiles to grasp it, but not fully understand. But, nope, Stiles understands and goes one further to explain what will happen to Matt. 

Derek’s instincts have actually overcome him, to the point where he’s willingly torn his claws into his leg, so that the venom will leave his system faster; he needs to be able to fight off Jackson. It’s his turn to protect Stiles now. 

Being in such close contact is difficult, to say the least. Derek is freaking bathing in Stiles’ sent, it’s never going to wash away, which Derek actually likes; the idea that they’re so combined, they are almost embedded onto each other. 

This gives Derek the chance to check out Stiles, out of the corner of his eye, even though he’s telling himself that he’s making sure that Jackson isn’t coming any nearer. Derek’s head is essentially leaning on Stiles’ elbow, and the proximity of it all- their legs, arms, torsos is almost too good. 

“If we survive this I’m getting the Game of Thrones books, the entire set and everything,” Stiles mutters, his eyes focused on Jackson. 

“What?” Derek mutters back, kind of incredulous, because it’s a life and death situation and his mate is bringing up George R.R. Martin NOW? 

“I don’t have them all,” Stiles shrugs, unapologetic. Derek wants to slam his head into the linoleum. 

“You can borrow them,” Derek says, without thinking. Crap. Crap. Crap. Did he seriously just say that? He let loose the fact that he reads. A lot. And okay, he does when he can, but he’d been trying to keep that part of his life- the vaguely sane, working side- away from Stiles until he was old enough to be a mate. 

Stiles is gaping at him. “You are so much cooler than I ever thought you were.” His mate splutters, and Derek’s lips almost quirk into a smirk, but it’s tempered by the agonising pain from his leg and the look Jackson shoots Stiles with. It belongs with Loki and the Frost Giants; Derek bristles at the insult. 

Stiles huffs and falls silent. Derek’s got a running bet with himself on how long it’ll be before Stiles talks again. 

“Hey, how’s the healing situation going on over there?” Stiles asks, almost silent. Derek wins. 

“Good,” Derek breathes. “I can move my toes.” 

“Dude, I can move my toes,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes, and Derek looks over in panic. 

*****

His eyes hold Stiles for what seems like an age, before the lights go off, and the fun really begins; some jackass opens fire (Derek would bet his sister’s car that it’s the Argents). Derek can smell Stiles’ fear, bitter, a scent he really doesn’t want to get acquainted with. 

Derek runs the very tips of his claws along the top of Stiles thigh, the only part that he can really reach, claws gentle because he’s handling something so very, very precious. Derek can smell Stiles’ surprise, mingled with the acrid stench of panic. 

“It’ll be fine,” Derek soothes. “Just wait.” Derek’s moving his toes, his legs, forcing the numbness out of his system, digging his claws (now back on his own leg) deeper. 

“Really? Have you not noticed the bullets coming through the windows?” Stiles says sarcastically, and his voice is screaming: you’re an idiot. 

“You know what, I hadn’t until you just pointed them out,” Derek snarls back, in agony. His voice drips sarcasm as much as his thigh drips black, healing blood as his claws reach tendon level. 

Scott suddenly comes running in (Derek’s decided that he’s his second favourite) and pauses at their feet. 

“Take him,” Derek says instinctively. His legs are twitching, like they’d fallen asleep. Scott picks up Stiles, but the kid FUCKING PAUSES. NO LONGER SECOND FAVOURITE. “GO!” Derek shouts, a direct order that Scott can’t technically disobey. 

Stiles is exuding surprise, but he’s silent as Scott pulls him away. His hand brushes against Derek’s dick and it jolts him with something that gives him strength. Derek can twist up and he holds a chair, willing the half-Change to swallow him. 

He growls in exultation as the venom leaves his system fully. 

Derek reaches the holding cell- where he can scent Stiles’ desperation and anger, but he’s too late he thinks, at first. Misery flares through him. Blood’s pooling around the Sheriff, but Scott and Matt are nowhere to be found. 

So of course that’s exactly the time when Jackson appears at the edge of his vision, perilously close to Stiles and he lets his instincts his wild; he ATTACKS. 

The fight is bloodthirsty and mostly painful and Derek is beaten. 

Afterwards, he helps Stiles into sitting position, but he’s quiet, lost in his own thoughts. His eyelashes are damp and stuck together from his tears, golden eyes rimmed with red. 

He doesn’t meet Derek’s eyes but goes and sits by his dad, who’s lying dangerously still; his heartbeat is strong, as he tells Stiles. His mate nods wearily and puts his head in his hands, ignoring Derek completely. 

Derek goes to find Scott and ducks behind a pillar when he hears his voice. He overhears the tail-end of a conversation between Scott and Gerard, basically confirming all of Derek’s fears that he actually can’t trust anyone, particularly Scott. 

He ducks back in the holding room, where Melissa’s patching up the Sheriff with supplies from a First Aid Kit. Stiles obviously got it for her, but he’s standing some distance away from the equivalent of his parents, cradling a bullet-torn frame of his mom in his hands, like he found the picture on the floor of the office. 

Derek watches on, wishing that he could heal Stiles from the pain that he’s exuding; but it’s emotional pain, and Derek doesn’t know how to heal him from that, not yet, anyway. He will, eventually. 

In the end, Derek drives Stiles and the Sheriff home, although he’s certain there are members of the Hale family up in heaven (and hell, for sure) laughing at the sight of him driving the Sheriff’s cruiser. Stiles is silent while his dad snoozes in the back, and even when Derek helps him get his dad upstairs.

Stiles walks Derek out, and gives him a weak nod as he leaves. 

Walking away from Stiles when he’s hurting is one of the most difficult things Derek has ever done. 

*****

Days later, Derek watches Stiles play lacrosse like any other normal teenager. The game unfurls chaotically; without the others, it seems that the entire team is falling apart. The other team seems to be massacring them, and Derek worries for him; he’s midfield. 

Stiles falls apart the first time the ball comes towards him and Derek has to force back a snarl the time that everyone seems to pile on top of him. Peter shoots him a dry, knowing look; without even being a werewolf, Peter knows. Peter always knows everything, and this intelligence, even after only an hour, is getting on his nerves.

He doesn’t have to smell it to guess, he can just tell that Derek’s got himself a mate. He’s so proud of his nephew’s acquisition. 

”Get a room,” he says sharply, disdainful, as Derek checks out Stiles’ ass, oblivious to everything else. Derek just rolls his eyes. 

“Would if I could,” Derek mutters back, and turns away from the havoc. 

It’s only the cheers of success that pull him back. 

He turns around and sees him racing across the pitch, ball in the net. He pauses by the goal and hesitates, as the entire team races towards him, like a really athletic stampede. 

Derek hears the shrill shriek of Lydia, and he watches on as he shoots the goal with precision, getting it in the goal. He realises that it’s Lydia’s voice that spurred him into action and he feels himself go faintly numb, like Jackson’s had free access to his neck.

He feels himself shaking his head slowly, and turns away from the scene, heading to the locker room, where he can wait for all of them; Scott, Stiles and Isaac to finish up, so he can talk to them, even though he would rather do anything else, such as going to the nearest couch with some mint ice cream and cartoon Spiderman. 

*****

Peter has been near Derek for a total of sixty eight minutes (he counted) and Derek is literally seconds away from wolfing out and tearing out his throat. He did it once, he wants to do it again. Like, really, really wants to. 

Being in the locker room dulls his senses, and he’s so focused on not committing homicide (wolficide?) that he doesn’t notice his claws are out. He’s confused, to say the least; he’s not that angry (really). But he forces his mind away from the thought of Peter and onto more neutral ground. 

It’s then and only then that he realises that he’s shaking, stomach tight with fear; worst of all, it’s not his own. Stiles. Derek concentrates, frowning in irritation at some remark Peter makes about going to the restroom if he really needs to, and focuses on Stiles. His location, his feelings. 

He can generally only feel Stiles’ emotions if he’s either afraid, or excited; sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night feeling like he’s just won the lottery, and it shocks him how strongly Stiles feels things. 

But right now, Stiles is deathly afraid, and Derek’s more than worried, he’s panicking. It’s not the prettiest sight. 

Derek’s standing there, and it is killing him to stand still and act normal. He wants to run and rip and render whatever is scaring Stiles so damn much. Peter’s grinning, so Derek grits his teeth and doesn’t even wait; he bolts out of the locker room. He’s presented face first with the commotion out on the field.

Lying in the centre of the field is a dead boy, pitifully small, and Derek’s stomach tightens to the point of pain before he realises. If Stiles were dead, Derek would feel it all- his pain, his agony- and he wouldn’t still feel scared. At closer inspection, Derek notes that the dead kid is Jackson, and his stomach settles slightly, although he feels a burst of guilt- tinged sadness, because, like always, it is his fault. 

He stalks away from the people, following Stiles’ scent on the wind, ignoring his John Stilinski’s cries for his son. Derek can see the Sheriff’s son, he can see Stiles; he’s got a clear view into the parking lot. He sees Stiles get escorted into the back of an Argent van, hand tight on his shoulder; he can hear Stiles grumbling. 

He sees Chris Argent look around and smile widely, even though he can’t see Derek. “I won’t.” he says solemnly before ducking in the front seat. Derek’s gaping, but he forces himself to stay still instead of chasing after the van. 

He’s certain that he shouldn’t trust Chris Argent, but he’s also certain that he wouldn’t hurt Stiles; he is so very human, and the Hunters like to pretend that they are human. Stiles won’t be hurt, but that doesn’t mean that Derek has to like willingly letting him go away with the Argents, the meaner equivalent of the Winchesters (would that make Scott Castiel, he wonders). 

Even though Derek can feel every little thing that’s happening to Stiles, and knows that for the moment he’s alright, he feels as worried as Scott or Isaac. 

It’s only until he goes back to the house and feels the sensation of being pushed down some stairs that he realises that even though the Argents may not kill Stiles, they would injure him. He feels the ghost of Kate looming over him.

He leaves his uncle alone with the excuse of needing some sleep, to recharge after everything, and he receives some crude comment about how masturbating to the thought of someone’s face is going to ruin your sex drive in the future. 

Either way, Derek steals a car because his sister’s car is back in storage, back at the Police Station. Sheriff Stilinski is keeping it impounded (Derek likes to think of it as keeping hold of it until he needs it again, a father-in-law doing a nice thing for his only son-in-law). He’s not delusional. He’s not. 

He pulls out his shoelace and uses his brother, Stephen’s old trick, the noose around the car lock, before hot-wiring the car like his cousin, Jess (Peter’s daughter), taught him how to. The Hales were all about teaching valuable life skills.  
The past tense still hurts to use.

He has to pull the stolen car- a nice little Honda- to the side of the road when Stiles gets beaten up. Derek’s shaking so badly he’s unsure whether he can push on the gas. He has to lean back and breathe deeply, because hyperventilating is not an option. 

Derek parks a few blocks away from the house, using his senses to track Stiles’ movements. He steps out of the stolen car when he sees his mate stumbling down the street. His heart is in his throat.

That’s all before he sees the cuts and bruises across Stiles’ face, making him look so very vulnerable, face bone white against the red of the cuts.

Alpha anger thrums through his veins and he’s aware that his eyes are beacons of red. He dials down the anger, trying not to scare Stiles. His hands are in front of him, a peaceful gesture. 

“Stiles,” Derek says gently, and his mate jumps about three feet in the air. For a second he’s speechless. 

“Derek?” His voice is confused and unstable, shaking. 

Derek intends to ask something akin to are you okay, but what comes out of his mouth is: “Why didn’t you call for help?” 

The laugh that comes out of Stiles is bitter, involuntary, even Derek can hear that. “Because. Why would I call YOU? I wouldn’t call you- because, well, you’re you and you wouldn’t help even if you could. I thought Scott would find me, though, and when he didn’t, I wanted to call him, but I couldn't.”

“Why not?” His voice is hard, disbelieving. 

“It’s a trap- calling you, Scott and even my dad- it would be putting you all in danger, and I’m selfish, but I’m not that selfish, I don't want to see my dad or Scott, or even you get hurt by those assholes,” Stiles shouts, face contorting in pain as the cut in his lip thinly trickles blood. 

“But what about you?” Derek’s mouth has a life of its own, apparently. 

“I’m just a message,” Stiles spits savagely, before storming away. 

It takes Derek four attempts at persuasion before Stiles willingly gets in his car and lets Derek drive him home. He slams the car door in Derek’s face and stalks into his house. Derek sighs and rubs a hand over his face. 

He wants to follow Stiles in his house and pull him into his arms and tell his mate everything and anything he wants to know. He wants to tell him that he’ll always be more than just a message, but Derek isn’t so selfish as to actually do that. He’s mildly comforted by the thought that Stiles will be at home when everything goes down. 

He drops the car back as quickly as he can (they hadn’t even noticed the ‘borrowing’) before running back to the house. He informs Scott and Isaac in his own way, “I told you, I looked everywhere’ that he helped to find Stiles, but like usual, no one’s really listening. He’s playing tiny violins to himself. 

*****

He feels more sorry for himself later, after he’s got Grandpa Argent splattered on his shoes and he’s covered in his own blood. He is making himself hungry. But worst of all, Stiles managed to get into the fight, even though Derek tried to make all sorts of deals with God (as it turns out God is not his home boy and does not understand his manpain. Who knew). 

The fight leaves them all bone-weary, even though he’s almost eighty per cent certain that they won, because Grandpa Argent may or may not be alive but everyone else he cares about is alive. 

Derek glances over at Stiles, and the kid’s crying openly at the sight of Lydia and Jackson. He grits his teeth but pushes forward. He knows from experience- the bullet incident and the fugitive incident- that Stiles keeps a set of spare clothes in the back of his Jeep, and there’s a butt naked new member of his pack. 

He shoves the clothes at Jackson, with a brief, “Welcome. We’ll find you a jacket at some point. Pack means leather.” The kid looks confused but steps into the clothes. Lydia’s got one hand on his arm, like she can’t bear to let go of him. 

Derek steps over to Stiles, where he’s standing, speechless. 

“I need your phone,” he says plainly. Scott’s talking quietly with Allison, oblivious to his best friend. 

Stiles is staring with blank astonishment, so Derek just dives into his pockets. He may or may not let his fingers brush against some things. 

Stiles jerks away from his touch, colour rising in his cheeks, and Derek frowns at him. He didn’t mean to do anything that would really hurt Stiles. He steps forward but Jackson interjects with a snotty, “Can you not?” 

Derek rolls his eyes and tosses him the cell phone. Stiles lets out an objecting sound and Jackson sneers at him before typing in his dad’s number. The pack pretends not to listen as his parents sob down the line and Jackson stays stony still. Lydia has one hand wrapped tight around his, and her fingers are going white where Jackson is squeezing them. 

It occurs to him then that maybe they should leave them alone. Derek doesn’t know what’s going to happen with Jackson, but it’s time that they should go; they all need to rest. Scott, Allison and her father have all disappeared, but Isaac and his Uncle remain, looking at him. And then there’s Stiles, who’s just staring at his shoes, uncomfortable. 

“Come on,” Derek sighs, turning to fully face Stiles. “Can you give us a ride home?” 

Stiles’ mouth is agape. “My cell phone!” He points out, making grabby hands at the device. Jackson smirks but it’s forced. His mouth is a tight line as his father continues to yell at him. 

“We’ll get it back later,” Derek says firmly, pushing Stiles towards his Jeep. Stiles shoots him with a venomous glare but doesn’t object. Not until Derek sidles towards the drivers’ seat. 

“Don’t even think about it,” he says, horrified. “Step away from Tasha.” 

Natasha Romanov? He seriously named his car after the Black Widow? And Derek’s worried about the fact that he knows the Avengers reference. Stiles cocks an eyebrow at him. 

“Avengers, come on man. Arguably Stan Lee’s best film. Ringing any bills?” Stiles says, smirking openly, although his face is pained. 

“Shut up,” Derek retorts back, going towards the passenger’s seat. The Amazing Spiderman is so better. Isaac and Peter have already slid in the back, and while Stiles grumbles about the dent in the hood of his baby, and the fact he should see a mechanic, but wait, the only mechanic in town is dead, Jackson killed him, and Derek’s stupidly charmed as they drive away from the scene. 

He flicks on the radio as they drive through the empty streets and the sound of Hungry Like the Wolf fill the car. Stiles sneaks a peek at Derek. 

“Too soon?” He asks, voice breaking the tension. 

Derek lightly cuffs him on the back of the head. “It will always be too soon to play that song.” 

Stiles yelps and shoots him a dirty look. Derek’s sure he’s being cursed in his mate’s head, but he feels oddly light, buoyant. 

The feeling lasts until they reach the house, and Derek’s so comfortable that after his uncle and Isaac leave the car with a muttered ‘thanks’ to Stiles, he takes away Stiles’ pain while he is conscious and awake and everything. 

“Whoa, dude, what you doing?” Stiles says, and it’s clear through his body language, voice and scent that he is thoroughly unnerved by the burning, warm hands that sneak onto his wrist. 

Derek’s eyes bore into his, some shade caught between blue, grey and green, too beautiful to be natural, as he takes the pain away. Stiles can’t help the genuine pornographic sound he makes, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. His face flushes and so does Derek's, but for two very different reasons. 

“Alright, thanks for that, get out of the Jeep. Now please. Or supply me with a shotgun. Both. Both would be good.” Stiles says pleasantly, putting his head in his hands. 

Derek chuckles and shuts the car door as gently as he can. He watches the Jeep peel away, Stiles swearing like a sailor and blasting a rap song through the forest. 

The thought hits him as he wanders through the house, back towards his room; the ceiling’s partly fallen away, and he can see the stars. He collapses on his bed, fully clothed. He can hear Isaac and Peter talking, playing Poker; he needs to warn Isaac about that, actually, because Peter is the worst cheater around. 

On a serious note, Derek knows that without Allison, Stiles and Scott are technically pack-less. Allison was the only thing keeping Scott from joining his pack…his link to the Argents kept him human. Now that link is gone. 

So Derek’s got one summer to persuade his mate and Scott to join his pack, before the Alpha pack starts to wreak havoc on Beacon Hills. 

Should be easy enough. 

Not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so late, but I had real difficulty with this chapter, I'm not sure why, precisely. This is the last half of the canon-compliant (haha, sort of) before we descend into the AU insanity that is Stolen. Thank you for reading if you are, I love you for it. So...try to enjoy?? While you can??


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets involved in solving Derek's problems, and somehow fixes absolutely everything in the space of a day (almost).

Derek forgets exactly why he got in his car in the first place when he sees Stiles at the edge of the road, just outside of town, soaked by the pouring rain and waving his arms in the air like he just doesn’t care. He pulls over when he gets close enough, and slides down the window. The jeep is idling by the side of the road, showing no signs of moving any time in the near future.

“Do you want a ride?” Derek has to shout over the sound of the rain.

“No I’m gonna wait for the next psychopath to pick me up, thanks. Where’s Moriarty when you need him…” Stiles says, giving Derek a thumbs up and backing away from the Camaro. Derek’s pretty sure he didn’t do anything wrong, yet. But when he sees Stiles shiver, Derek gets annoyed; the guy’s just being stubborn. He feels disgruntled. He’s saved his life on more than one occasion; can’t he just trust him enough to drive him somewhere?

“He’s dead, remember Reichenbach fall,” Derek mutters, quiet enough that he assumes Stiles won’t hear him, or care.

Stiles makes a sound close to a whimper at the word ‘Reichenbach’, but gets into the car. Derek’s pleasantly surprised and tries to surreptitiously put the seat heaters on, because he figures that wrapping himself around Stiles to keep him warm isn’t what he wants, exactly. Not yet, anyway.

Derek passes him his cell phone and Stiles honest to god coos. He rubs his face against the phone and Derek isn’t getting an erection, he isn’t.

But Stiles’ entire appearance is erection worthy- his lips are shockingly red, like he’s been biting at them, cheeks flushed with heat as he snuggles into the Camaro’s seat, like he belongs there. His shirt- a short-sleeved v-neck, that can’t be all he is wearing, because while Derek really REALLY likes the shirt (he can see his collarbones, it’s basically porn) he also likes the idea of Stiles being healthy, instead of having hypothermia.

Stiles dials Scott and lets him know that the beach trip isn’t going ahead. Derek glances out the window and looks back at Stiles, eyebrow raised. Stiles gestures back an entire conversation that would put Donna Noble to shame, and in fact, Derek feels as lost as Ten.

“Sorry,” Stiles says as he hangs up. “We were supposed to go to the coast and drink until Scott felt something.”

“Who does he think he is, Cas?” Derek mutters and Stiles beams. He honest to god beams at a reference to a television show, because he clearly loves TV shows more than people. Derek can vaguely relate.

“He wishes,” Stiles snorts. There’s a moment of awkward silence, full of tension that really can’t just be Derek’s sexual anguish speaking for itself.

“What am I gonna do about Tasha,” Stiles mutters, staring dejectedly at his car. Derek can see a tendril of smoke curling around the hood. He panics a little.

“Pass me the phone,” Derek says, holding out his hand. Stiles passes it to him, and he shivers as their fingers brush against each other. He breathes deeply before ringing his Uncle Mark’s old mechanic shop, a few miles out of town, praying that it’ll still be open, and that there’ll be someone who knows Derek there.

Luckily enough, it’s Mark’s best friend, Thomas, who answers the phone; Derek had met him a couple of times, he thinks, and after he reintroduces himself, he’s listening to a middle aged guy sob down the line. Derek pulls the phone a little way from his ear because he really, really does not like it when people cry. He feels a familiar barb of self-loathing, because this man is still grieving after eight years, and guess what, it’s still Derek’s fault.

After about eight solid minutes of wrenching sobs, Derek asks him for a favour- to pick up the Jeep and tow it back to the Sheriff’s house- the answer is an instant yes. Derek promises that he’ll come and visit Thomas and his wife and children for dinner, before hanging up. He stares at the phone in his palm for a moment, before Stiles’ shivers catch his eye.

He looks at Stiles, and he doesn’t see pity in his eyes; he only sees sorrow, and feels a sense of kinship. Stiles knows how it feels to feel like you’re the one to blame for everything, and Derek’s ridiculously glad that he has Stiles with him right now, because usually when he needs Stiles, he can’t be there.

But right now, he’s everything Derek needs.

However, Derek doesn’t really want a mate with hypothermia.

“Come on, I’ll drive you home,” Derek says with a weak smile. “You can have a shower before I fix your car.”

“But you don’t know anything about cars,” Stiles objects, and Derek bristles.

“I can tell you the difference between a starter solenoid and a starter pinion.” Derek points out, refusing the impulse to stick out his tongue in a SO THERE motion. “Can you?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, but concedes that maybe Derek does know a bit more about cars than, say, he does. However, he swears revenge on him if he hurts Tasha, because apparently he has moves that Derek has never seen before. Derek wants to see those moves but he’s not sure that they’re talking about the same moves.

*****

The journey back to the Sheriff’s house is mostly made up of Derek trying to burn the image of Stiles, sleepy, in the front seat of his car, wearing Derek’s leather jacket into his brain. Stiles’ scent is particularly potent when it’s wet, and when he’s angry, so the scent is lingering all over the upholstery. Derek’s fighting the temptation to thrust against his car. His sister would kill him for even thinking about it.

Stiles is snuggled into the jacket as he gets out of the car; the sleeves are the perfect length, but Stiles is lean; he’s not as broad as Derek, probably never will be, but he’s as tall if not taller than Derek.

Which Derek really likes the idea that he would have to tilt his head to kiss his mate.

Stiles cracks open the door and stumbles inside, gesturing for Derek to come in. Derek pauses, because this is the first time he’s actually been invited into his house, instead of breaking and entering. He feels honoured.

“Help yourself to pop tarts,” Stiles says, pointing at the cupboards. “Dad’s not gonna be back for a while so you can eat before you get to work on my Jeep for the rest of the day.” He grins, a daring smirk at Derek. He rolls his eyes in response.

“Shut up Stiles,” he shoots back. “Do you have anything old that I can change into?”

“Don’t want to get oil on your fancy top?” Stiles asks, a sneer playing at his mouth.

“Do you want me to fix your jeep or what?” Derek snaps, because yes, this shirt is fucking expensive. He doesn’t love Stiles that much. Okay, he totally does, but this is kind of an excuse to surround himself in Stiles’ scent again…and he likes borrowing Stiles’ shirts.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says, eyes narrowed, and Derek knows that Stiles is so onto him. But he still lets Derek into his room behind him as he grabs a towel and some boxers and a shirt for himself. He leaves the bedroom door open, but closes the bathroom door, and locks it.

“Not that I don’t trust you or anything,” Stiles yells. “But you’ve got the serial killer face on and I don’t exactly want to push my luck, y’know?”

Derek rolls his eyes and swears at the bathroom door. He knows it’s unreasonable for Stiles to feel safe around him and trust him when he’s reduced to snarky comments and violence, but it’s the only way he’d ever get something out of Stiles; otherwise he would stop with it all, it’s a total fallacy. Well. Most of it. Not the snark.  

It hits him then that if he wants Stiles to trust him…he probably should tell him something. An act to demonstrate his trust, because Scott is always bitching that Derek never tells him anything. So this is kind of a kind gesture and a fuck you Scott, in one move.

“Stiles?” He yells, loud enough to hear over the sounds of running water. The sound of warm flesh, rubbing and the soapy edition of Stiles’ scent distract him momentarily. He realises that Stiles yelled back an affirmative response.

“There’s a pack of Alphas coming into town,” he yells quickly, before his brain has time to think and doubt himself.

“WHAT?” Stiles yells, and then there’s a slipping sound, and the sound of ripping. Derek may or may not panic, and then the door’s open and Stiles is at his feet, covered in soap suds and entirely naked.

He screams and tries to cover his modesty, although, there’s no point to that really, Derek’s seen all he’s imagined for years. His dick juts out, soft, from a nest of dark curls, pale and perfect and punctuated with a freckle just at the tip; Derek wants to kiss that freckle.

Derek saw and it was good.

He turns around to hide his blush and tosses back a towel. “You okay?”

“I slammed my head against the tap and FELL OUT OF MY SHOWER.” Stiles snaps back, cursing as he nurses his head. He stalks past Derek into his room, the towel wrapped around him, covering up his upper body with one arm. He’s wiry, and the stretch of his skin across the muscles in his stomach is mouth-watering.  “Does it sound like I’m okay?!”

“There are varying levels of okay?” Derek says, hoping that it will cover his ass. He turns to grab a shirt from the drawers that Stiles is digging through, but the kid slaps his hand out of the way, and it rebounds off Stiles’ hip. This means that he glances at the towel covering his dick and it turns more into a leer, really.  

He’s too busy staring at Stiles’ surprisingly long and slender dick through the towel (but not worryingly long) that Stiles has to click his fingers at him to get his attention.

“Stop the horrified stares, I’m sure your eyes will recover,” Stiles snaps, voice irritated.

“Doubt it,” Derek mutters, rubbing a hand over his eyes, breathing deeply. He turns around again and tips his head back to the ceiling, wondering what he ever did to deserve such harsh punishment.

He hears the rustle of clothes against that smooth, flawless skin, and feels the soft impact of a shirt against his back. Derek pulls his shirt off in one motion, tossing it to the floor before tugging on this new shirt; the familiar Stiles scent washes over him, dragging him into the land of intoxication; he feels vaguely high (even though werewolves can’t get high, Derek had had to explain to a saddened Scott).  

When he turns around he’s hit by Stiles’ want and attraction so hard, it feels like a freaking freight train. He bites his lip and feels his nostrils flare. Stiles has pulled on a shirt talking about salt and John (which takes him a minute to work out) and a pair of plaid boxers. They curve close to his ass, making him really distracting.

Derek’s more than a little disappointed when he pulls on a baggy pair of jeans.

“Stiles-” he starts, voice low, the sound of his phone sex operator tone familiar and unwelcome.

“Don’t,” Stiles’ voice is wavering, unconfident but the finger pointing at Derek is serious and steady. “You’re going to fix my Jeep and you’re going to explain everything, because otherwise, so help me God, I will tell my dad enough to make you a fugitive again, okay?”

The threat is serious, and Derek’s first response is to be impressed. He scowls at Stiles but nods, accepting; like the very first time in his house, Derek can accept that this is his territory. His word is everything here; he’s earned at least that.

Stiles smirks but his eyes are still narrowed as he slinks past Derek down the stairs. He fishes for a pack of peas in the freezer before holding them up against the small, purpling bump on his skull.

Derek’s instinct is to heal him, so he asks even though he knows the answer. “Do you want me to…” he gestures at his head.

“Punch me in the head? No thanks, I’m good,” Stiles says back, smile false as he gathers pop-tarts, popping them in the toaster. He winces as the cold settles against his skin.

“You’re making me want to punch you, idiot, but I didn’t mean that,” Derek snaps. “I meant, smartass, did you want me to heal you?”

“Asking this time? I feel blessed. Getting over your boundary issues, I see, I feel like I should be videotaping this. Bookmarking the occasion.” Stiles snarks, eyes still wary.

“Fine, suffer from a migraine for the rest of the day and a bunch of questions from your dad. See if I care.” _See that I care, Stiles,_ he wills, looking at the kid straight in the eye, trying to emulate Supernatural levels of eye-fucking.

Stiles is speechless. Derek feels a little smug; he’s really the only one who can do that. He should put it on his resume.

Stiles dumps down the bag of peas and steps closer to Derek; Derek half-shivers as his hand, acting of its own will, curves around his temple. He closes his eyes as Stiles’ scent of want and attraction slam into him.

He opens his eyes, and those glorious, amber brown eyes are only inches away. Stiles’ eyes are flickering between Derek’s eyes and his mouth, lingering on his lips, licking his own.

He starts the healing, almost a minute later, because the little fucker keeps on STARING AT HIS LIPS.

The pain flows into Derek, but it’s more than worth it.

Yet again, a vaguely pornographic sounding moan rips from Stiles, making Derek hard. He shivers when he realises that Stiles moaned his name. He’s blushing, but god, Derek just wants to lick into that mouth and _take_ -

He’s cut off by the arrival of the Jeep. Stiles blinks hazily, before his mouth falls open. Derek backs out of Stiles’ space and stalks outside, towards the garage, where the Jeep sits. He leans against the bonnet and breathes in short bursts, trying to regain his sanity.

Stiles is going to be the death of him.

*****

Derek slaves over the Jeep for the rest of the day.

He tries to be productive and explain everything he can about the Alphas at the same time, but it’s difficult. Stiles comes up with question after question, eating an absurd number of Poptarts.

“How does it even work? Don’t they just fight each other all the time, y’know, to be dominant? How do they share?” Stiles demands, sitting on the garage’s workbench. Derek’s hands are deep in the engine, trying to deconstruct the heart of the Jeep without pulling it apart. His fingers are numb with cold.

“It’s like a normal pack, there’s hierarchy,” Derek snaps back. “There should be an alpha pair, like usual, and an alpha-beta, and an alpha-omega.”

“That makes sense,” Stiles says sarcastically. “Totally logical. Spock would be so proud.”

It continues mostly in this fashion; Derek will say something, Stiles will mock, Derek will snap and will get the doe eyes as his punishment. It’s a tiring and beautiful circle.

This is until Stiles’ phone goes off and he mutters “Scott,” before answering it. Derek panics for a minute before remembering that people do call other people, even when there isn’t a crisis.

Stiles takes the call to the back of the garage, like that will make any difference and Derek pretends not to listen.

This goes as well as the Cuban Missile crisis. Emphasis on the crisis, ‘cause Derek’s having an existential one.

“Yeah I’m okay, I think,” Stiles mutters, glancing back at Derek.

Scott says something about being sure.

“Well, if you want to get specific, my legs and ass kind of kill right now,” Stiles mutters back, irritated, pacing around the back of the garage. Derek could hear the conversation if he were one hundred miles under the sea, and irony, that’s where he wants to be right now. “You’ll find that after sex. Well, the kind of sex I apparently now have.”

Derek freezes and his heart is in his throat. He’s forgotten how to breathe. His eyes are red; he actually has to blink away the red.

“You asked for detail,” Stiles hisses, and Derek wants to vomit, he honestly did not want that much detail. This more than hurts. He is seeing green and red at the same time, he feels like he’s celebrating Christmas, but unless it involves Satan and violence; it’s not the kind of holiday he wants right now. “No, he hasn’t called, or text back. I don’t know why.”

Derek’s not sure of much right now, but all he knows is he wants to hunt down this guy and tear him apart, slowly, with ‘Another one Bites the Dust’ playing in the background to complete the atmosphere. He hates that he’s never heard anything about this guy before, but apparently Stiles has had sex with him?

“No I don’t need a drinking buddy. I can drown my sorrows alone, later.” Stiles says quickly, voice still near silent. “’Cause Derek’s here.”

Derek can hear the panic on the other end of the line and Stiles’ small huff of indignation.

“No, Scott, he’s in fact killing my dad, and this is my call goodbye.” Stiles snarks, irritation plain in his voice. “He’s just helping me out with something, and I need to go. Yeah, yeah, I’ll call you later. To show he hasn’t maimed me or whatever.”

 He hangs up and sighs loudly. Derek just wants to wrap his arms around him and scent-mark him until next Wednesday.

 “Let’s pretend you’re decent and didn’t hear anything,” Stiles says, sitting back on the side.

“I wish I hadn’t,” Derek answers truthfully, and Stiles rolls his eyes in response.

“Me too.”

“Why would they want to come here, though, that’s the part I don’t get,” Stiles says, a deliberate change of topic. Derek can basically smell his blush.

“To observe me as the new Alpha. Think of it like a new restaurant; they’re the health inspector.” Derek grits out, still fuming with jealousy, and frustrated because the car under his hands should be fixed and running by now, but he can’t find out what’s wrong with it. Doesn’t help that his hands are shaking.

“So, they want to observe you, Peter and Isaac?” Stiles laughs, but it’s not a mean laugh. Then he pauses, voice turning sombre (well as sombre as Stiles can go, basically not sarcastic). “Erica and Boyd haven’t come back?”

Stiles had told Derek about them, of course, the fact that they were back at the house, locked in the basement like he had been. That had been the night of Gerard’s death. Derek remembers feeling _hurt,_ more than anything, and he snapped something in response akin to them ‘no longer being his responsibility’, because they’d left him as fast as possible, even though he needed them. Stiles was silent that night, eyes disappointed, and Derek’s certain that if he looks up now he’ll see that same expression.

“Yes they want to observe us. No they haven’t returned.” Derek snaps, pure irritation, because it’s hitting him all over again that Stiles and Scott won’t join his pack, he hasn’t heard from Jackson, Lydia’s still…recovering from everything, and Boyd and Erica are probably dead, by now. Derek feels weak, fragile, something an Alpha should never feel; since Peter ran off, he only has Isaac, and he’s hanging out with Scott more than ever before. Derek shivers at the prospect of losing Isaac too, but he’s still annoyed about the fact that Stiles wouldn’t even consider joining Derek’s pack as an option. And the fact that his mate probably just lost his virginity to some guy he doesn’t even know, but either way, it wasn’t him so he’s going to sulk about it for a while. In his head. “But Peter’s gone.”

Apparently it’s truth hour; like Stiles has been messing about with veritaserum. Derek wouldn’t put it past him, even though he’s almost certain it doesn’t exist (he can’t be sure, he was sure that the elves didn’t exist, but he learned from an experience in the subways that they do, and they like the taste of werewolf hide), Stiles has the same steely determination that Laura did, which made her such a good Alpha.

“He’s run off?” Stiles says, unimpressed. Derek gives a sharp nod in response. “Hopefully like a cat, they run off to die.” Derek can’t help it, a snort of laughter bursts free. Stiles blinks, mouth twitching.

“Wait, you used the present tense,” Stiles suddenly realises. “Not the future. They’re _here_?”

Derek grunts an affirmation as he effectively holds up the Jeep with one hand.

“What are they waiting for, exactly? Christmas?” Stiles sounds desperate beneath the sarcastic, Stiles exterior. “Stupid plan. It’s only August.”

“Stiles.”

“Well, then tell me something, already, Derek,” Stiles snaps, clearly frustrated. Stiles saying his name does weird things to Derek’s body.

“They’re stalking us, like prey. They probably want to learn as much as they can about all of us before they attack. Assess our weaknesses.” Derek puffs out, jaw tight with something close to irritation.

He discovers, finally, that it’s just the alternator that’s not working, so Derek’s going to have to go to Mark’s old shop and get the piece, talk to Thomas. What a pleasant conversation that will be.

“Easy there, Satan,” Stiles shivers. “So when I was waiting for a tow- for almost an hour, I might add- I could have _died_?”

“You could have been seen,” Stiles blinks and almost laughs at Derek’s attempt at a Harry Potter reference. “But yes, you could have. You should have called Scott.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, a vague _yeah_ coming towards Derek. The kid is still shaking. Derek can sympathise, he’s basically still reeling from the news that Stiles apparently has had sex, and recently. “Or me.” He adds, because he likes to torture himself. He looks up at Stiles from under his eyelashes, hoping for some sort of reaction. Stiles flails a little when hopping down from the counter.

“Seeing as I’m not gonna pay you for this- you’ve known about the Alpha pack for a while without telling any of us anything- thanks for that, for the record, feels like a giant hug- I figure you could at least stay for dinner,” Stiles says pleasantly, like he’s doing Derek this giant favour, instead of it being the other way round. Stiles arches his back and Derek’s momentarily hypnotised by the way his muscles shift under the shirt. “Call it small town generosity in the form of a questionable ready meal.”

Derek may or may not catch E.coli from the food, but he can’t remember the last time he had a hot meal. So he takes Stiles up on his offer. What’s a few more hours bathed in Stiles scent?

(The answer to that, by the way, is heaven).

*****

The meal itself is basically diluted cardboard (an insult to cardboard, actually) but the company more than makes up for it. However, the atmosphere is tense, awkward; nothing like it was in the garage. Derek knows he’s staring at Stiles but he can’t find the off switch for his leer. Stiles shifts in his seat, muttering about the Sheriff helping out over in Seattle with a string of questionable murders; Derek’s just pleased that they’re not taking place in Beacon Hills.

Derek goes back out to the Jeep and does a general check up, knowing that Thomas probably will but it wouldn’t kill him to check the spark plugs, starter and brake system. The Jeep’s a little run down, so he resigns himself to an expensive bill from his uncle’s shop. Derek doesn’t even consider asking Stiles to pay for it, which he realises is a sign of his insanity, but he _wants_ to do this for Stiles. He wonders while under the hood whether or not his family (a.k.a. Laura) would’ve sent him to a deprogrammers. 

It’s about eleven o’clock when Derek finally leaves, warning Stiles that the Jeep won’t be drive-able until he gets the car part from the mechanic’s shop. He gets the wounded Stiles eyes, and the kid evil eyes the Jeep. Derek huffs; fighting back a smile as Stiles cries out “TA-SHAAAAAAAAA” and hugs the hood of the Jeep. Apparently it’s relevant to _The Avengers_ and Coulson, but Derek’s not convinced.

Either way, he does the stupid thing and says that he’ll give Stiles a ride if he needs to go anywhere. Stiles doesn’t need to know that it’s because he can’t stand the idea of him getting hurt, and he’s been doing watches at night (at Stiles’ house) to ensure that this doesn’t happen, so he’s not going to let his work go to waste, with Stiles hitch-hiking or walking through the woods to get to Scott’s place. Stiles gapes at him, with a cocked head, and Derek wonders just how cruel he’s actually been to Stiles in the past. Judging by the way he’s acting, Derek may or may not have eaten all the _Reese’s_ in town (Derek knows that the random cravings for _Reese’s_ he gets are not his own, he hates peanut butter) and enjoys dry-humping Lydia on a regular basis.

“Wait, but won’t he mind-” Stiles says, grasping for an excuse to not accept the offer of the ride, and gasping for oxygen. They’re standing on the porch.

“Who exactly will mind?” Derek laughs, but it’s involuntary and bleak. News flash, he has no one. “My ego?”

Stiles mimics laughing, but drops it, frowning. “If you’re sure,” he sounds as hesitant as he could be.

“Well, I’m kind of regretting the offer now,” Derek says, falsely pleasant.

“You’re actually hilarious,” Stiles tells him. He pauses on the way back to the house and looks at Derek, amber eyes searching for something. Derek swallows back the choking emotion in the back of his throat. Passes it off in his head as a fur ball.

“Can you be here by nine tomorrow?” he says, voice entirely vulnerable. He bites his lip and squints at Derek, who still doesn’t understand how his face works.

“Maybe,” Derek says and Stiles rolls his eyes in response, all vulnerability gone.

“Smartass,” he mutters and goes back in the house.

Derek doesn’t miss the “Goodnight, Sourwolf” Stiles mutters before he gets in his car, though.

He waits for a second before starting the Camaro and is rewarded. He hears Stiles sprint upstairs (he trips on the last step, so close to making it) and into his room. He hears him pull out several, weighty books and somehow gives himself a paper-cut in the process. He smiles at the swearing, because it rivals a pre-schoolers and leaves.

He calls the mechanic’s store as soon as he gets back to the Hale house, ignoring the note from Isaac which says that he’s at Scott’s house, staying over, like he has been all summer. He speaks to Thomas and he says that he’ll pick up the Jeep on the journey into work tomorrow, which makes Derek sigh with relief. He wants it fixed, for Stiles’ sake, as quickly as possible.

When he picks up watch later, hiding in the shadows of the trees behinds Stiles’ house, he can hear viciously fast typing, alternating with harsh scribbling on paper. Stiles is muttering to himself and Derek can hear the Eminem music from his post (Stiles has suspiciously poor taste in music). That’s serious music for Stiles, studying music. Derek is suspicious. It’s summer. He stays on the watch longer than usual, leaning against a tree, but Stiles doesn’t go to sleep. He chugs back what Derek assumes is an energy drink and continues typing for eight hours. Derek leaves just before sunrise, officially curious.

*****

He manages to catch three hours of sleep before his phone alarm goes off. The difficulty is that Derek has to work out for at least an hour before he even feels anything, so he pulls up to Stiles’ house still sweaty and grumpy from lack of sleep. Stiles is throwing back another energy drink as he arrives, munching on a strawberry Poptart. His stomach grumbles painfully at the sight of Stiles, or the Poptart, he’s not sure.

“Hey,” Stiles says, sounding surprised. He’s clutching a wedge of paper in his hand and the food stuffs in the other, and Derek’s trying to figure out how he hasn’t fallen over or broken anything or started the next apocalypse. Stiles and balancing do not go hand in hand.

Somehow (Derek suspects magic) Stiles clambers into the Camaro without causing a catastrophe. He uses the cup holder for the first time for his drink. Derek’s staring at the Poptart, he can feel it, but the strawberry goodness and Stiles’ scent are really scents that shouldn’t be combined, they’re delicious.

Stiles rolls his eyes and actually tears the Poptart in half, handing a segment to Derek. Derek’s in shock for a second, because he’d assumed he was of the Joey Tribbiani variety, but hello, food. So he stuffs it down, mouth exploding with the taste of Stiles on the food. So, bonus.  He licks the crumbs from his hand.

“Who knew, Derek Hale has a sweet tooth,” Stiles wonders, face shocked. Derek rolls his eyes and tells him to shut up through a mouthful of food, which makes it a little less effective.

“Are we gonna go anywhere, because I’ve got a ficus that really needs to be watered if we’re staying put-” Stiles says, in that jackass way he has.

“To go anywhere I need to know where I’m supposed to be going,” Derek points out.

“The Argents’ place,” Stiles says simply and Derek gapes.

“Do you actively want me dead, or something?” He asks. He thought he was making progress with Stiles, that maybe if he didn’t like him yet, he didn’t hate Derek anymore, but clearly he's been thinking wrong-

“No. We’ve got a meeting with Allison’s dad at nine thirty.”

“ _Why?”_ Derek’s voice is clipped.

“Because this is part one of two of the awesome Stiles Stilinski initiative.” Stiles says, as if that explains everything.

“Stiles.” Derek says, everything he needs to say in his name alone: _I love you but if you get either of us killed I will harm your jeep._

“Okay. I’m just doing what needs to be done, here!” Stiles protests. “The Alphas are here. We can’t present a divided front, dear God man, have you even seen the Avengers? They worked best after Coulson died. They had something to fight for, to fight together against Loki. So, I propose that the momentary death of my Jeep means that we band together. All of us. Even though Scott kinda hates you. We’ll ignore that part, maybe. We can work past it. Through it. Same thing.”

  “How is any of that relevant to us going into the Argents? Oh, sorry, I meant the _death-trap_ that is part one.”

“Because you- we- need to establish something close to peace. So we’ll stay off their land and will keep the ‘wolves in check come the full moon and they won’t kill and/or maim any of us the rest of the time. Then we all win.” Stiles explains.

“Not much of an idealist, are you?” Derek scoffs.

“If we make it a contract, a deal they can’t refuse they can’t back out of it, Derek!” Stiles says hotly, gesturing to the wedge of stapled paper on the dashboard. “They can be an ally, instead of an enemy…like sixty per cent of the time.”

“How can we legally bind them, with a contract? Last time I checked, neither of us have a law degree.” Derek points out, gesturing at the paper.

Stiles’ mouth presses into a hard line. “My mom was a lawyer.” His voice is emotionless, and it stuns Derek into silence. “I used her books last night to write this.” He nods, accepting, and Stiles perks up a little, visibly shaking off memories.  

 “Chris Argent has helped to save your ass and mine on more than one occasion,” Stiles says slowly, after a minute, like he’s a rude American tourist trying to get a foreign person who doesn’t speak his language to understand what he’s laying down.

Derek makes an irritated clicking sound with his tongue.

 “Also tried to put a bullet in my ass about the same amount of times,” Derek points out.

“In your ass, well isn’t that mean. I think my dad would do something like that, if he knew everything,” Stiles says, eyebrows raised. “But I’m also pretty sure that if we do this, if we get them to put the code back into practice, then things will be at least seventy per cent better.”

“Bringing out the statistics to impress, I see,” Derek says. Stiles shoots him a look that clearly reads _your Hale humour is not needed right now._

“Can we just get to the house? You can wait in the car and everything, if you want.” Stiles says generously.

“And let you go back into that house alone? Not happening,” Derek shoots back without really thinking. Stiles exudes surprised scents, sweet and a little sharp, like mint.

“Aw, who knew you cared,” Stiles says, voice saccharine sweet. “Neither of us are getting in the house if you don’t break at least a couple of speeding laws. Meeting’s at nine thirty. They may or may not shoot us if we’re late.”

 *****

Stiles starts to leak panic scents all over the car when they pull up to the house. Derek realises that this idea- it involved him contacting Allison, and swallowing every fear he had about the Argents, because the last time he was here, he was getting beaten up by Grandpa Argent, and if he’s strong enough to ignore all of that, Derek can push past this fear he has for the house and its inhabitants. He can almost feel Kate’s presence with him, and uses Stiles’ scent to block hers (entirely in his head) out.

He reaches out and clutches at the edge of Stiles’ jacket, thinking that no one notices. Even as the door creaks open and the only two Argents left- Allison and                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Chris- stand there, severe looks almost moulded into their features as they invite Stiles and Derek inside, he can’t let go. He thinks he gets away with it until Stiles smirks at him, a small upwards tilt of his lips as they settle on the only couch in the living room, facing opposite two chairs.

Allison settles opposite Stiles and shoots him a small smile which he graciously returns, but Derek can see that there is no real emotion in it, and that he’s a lot angrier than he seems on the surface. Seeing as Derek can still smell his Betas faintly in the house and has to fight back his claws and eyes, he can vaguely relate.     

The meeting is stiff and awkward, broken only by Allison trying to repent and apologise in the form of saying gentle things to Stiles, and generally ignoring Derek’s entire presence. Christopher seems to quickly learn that none of this is relevant to Derek, but is all Stiles’ doing, especially when he produces the contract; Derek wonders if he has to sign something, because he’s hiding his claws under his leg and under Stiles’ coat (although he’s made new holes in the material).

He asks Stiles this in a whisper while Allison and her father read over the contract, muttering to each other.

“No, dude, I signed it for you already. Well, I signed it, but it was…representing you. Hope that’s okay.” Stiles replies, voice totally certain. Derek nods, surprised.  Derek’s pleased with this, because they are officially representing a united front, and this is how it is supposed to be. What belongs to Derek belongs to Stiles, just as much, and that includes pack. He’s in shock that this has happened, that he’s sitting on Argent’s couch discussing peace arranged by his mate, _for him._ Then he remembers that it’s not being done for him, that more likely it’s for Scott and Allison’s sake, and he feels a little more like he usually does.

The Argents eventually sign over their right to go crazy on the Hale pack every full moon, if they uphold their end of the contract. Stiles promises that he’ll photocopy the contract and laminate it, to be sent back to the Argents. Chris smiles weakly at that, but Allison’s clearly not okay with the contract entirely. She can’t stop looking at Stiles, and the look on her face- sort of pleading desperation- is something Kate would never have on her face, but it reminds Derek of _her_ so much that he ends up hauling Stiles out of the house as quickly as he can.

It’s only when they’re back in the Camaro that Derek realises Stiles has been trying to soothe him, and he’s torn through Stiles’ coat.

“Are you going to kill me?” Stiles asks gingerly, eyes boring into Derek’s. Derek’s hands are on his legs, hands curling into fists with claws, and he makes an irritated sound. Of course he’s not going to kill Stiles, he’s just trying to fight his impulses which just want him to go back and maul the Argents and then lap at Stiles’ face for hours on end, until he smells like both of them. It’s so easy to ignore all of that.

“Dude,” Stiles says, voice partially annoyed almost a minute later. “My jacket-”

Derek huffs and pulls off his leather jacket, handing it over to Stiles. Stiles holds it in his hands, fingers curled around the material, staring at Derek with narrowed eyes. “Is this a trick? Do you want to further damage my self-belief by making me wear this?” Stiles’ voice is suspicious and Derek just wants to kiss this self doubt out of him.

“Consider it a temporary replacement until you get a new jacket,” Derek says, the phone sex voice making a pleasant appearance.

“Well, it’s summer so I don’t really…”Stiles begins but pauses when he sees the serious look on Derek’s face. “But we do get chilly evenings. So I’ll wear it…thanks. I think. Not that I’m thanking you for wrecking my new jacket but for replacing it with a leather one that’s probably worth more than my Jeep. ”

“No problem,” Derek says back generously and drives away (as fast as legally possible) from the Argent house.

*****

Derek’s not sure why, but he takes Stiles back to the Hale house, even though Isaac’s at Scott’s, and he should have taken him back to the Stilinski household. Instinct seems to have taken over reason today, apparently.

“I didn’t mean to bring you back here,” Derek says hesitantly, hands still on the wheel. “I can take you home.”

“No, actually, this is perfect,” Stiles is grinning in his face, pleased about something that will probably worry Derek. “I just need to call a couple of people, get them here too.”

“We’re not having a rave in my house,” Derek says immediately.

“Didn’t want to, but clearly you do. Noted, Sourwolf, noted.” Stiles says like he’s talking to an idiot. “I’m bringing Scott, Isaac and Lydia up here to begin part two of the Stiles Stilinski Initiative.”

Derek’s staring at him blankly because this does not compute.

“We’re going to make ourselves a base. Like a tree-house but…bigger and cooler and werewolf…lier?” Stiles says, gesturing to the Hale house. “Think of it in terms of _Home Alone,_ we’re Macaulay Caulkin, the Alphas are the thieves. With claws and teeth instead of explosives and tarantulas.”

Rebuilding the house isn’t something Derek had considered, because his house isn’t _home_ without a pack or his mate (yeah, Stiles, this means you) there. Rebuilding would mean settling down new roots, and replacing the old pack. Wiping away the memories of the old pack with the new Hale pack, and that’s something Derek’s not sure he wants to do. He doesn’t understand why Stiles would want to do this for him, because this is definitely something for him. This isn’t just about giving the pack a base; this is about tying Derek down to one place, like he would- could- go anywhere, now that he _knows_ Stiles.

 This would give Derek somewhere to live, with electricity and running water, brand new concepts to this Derek. It would mean bringing back the Derek from before, and he’s not sure he can do that, because that Derek was foolish enough, arrogant with his belief in his pack, that he let a Hunter in. Creating new roots would mean that he would have something new to lose, which is something he can’t comprehend.

What he has currently with Stiles is tender, new, and it’s riding on some insane impulse or line of thought that he’s having. It’s not stable; it’s not something he can rely on, these new Stiles actions, because Derek’s still not sure whether Stiles means it, whether he knows what this would _mean to him._

“ _Why_?” Derek asks, voice inexplicably confused, eyes glaring into Stiles’. In his defence, Stiles doesn’t flinch but responds with surprising surety, heartbeat steady. “You’re not pack.” The words hurt to say, but they’re the truth.

“Because you don’t have a home,” Stiles says simply, mouth a rueful shape, and a flush appears at the top of his cheekbones. “And with everything that you’ve done for me, with the whole slamming my head into the wheel, no just kidding, but saving me from Isaac and helping me overall, I just wanted to do one thing for you. For all of us, really, for your pack, which I know I’m not a part of, but you’ve been remarkably sane lately, I think that if you wanted to, you could get Scott to join. His new bromance with Isaac would probably solidify the pack dynamic, right? Besides, this is something _I_ can do…sort of. You can go back to hating me right afterwards if you want to. You don’t even have to stop.”

“I don’t hate you, Stiles,” the words are low, pained. Derek can almost taste the hurt in his words. “God. I never hated you.”

“If you say so… but is that a yes? Did I detect a yes in there somewhere?” Stiles asks, voice hopeful.

Derek gulps down oxygen like he’s dying, and he very well may be, he’s trembling, but he thinks he nods. He’s caught up in the idea that somehow, he’s managed to get a Pack, which Stiles says he’s not part of, but if Scott is…they’re brothers. If Scott is in the Pack, unofficially, Stiles is too.

He feels rather than sees Stiles flash a grin, and he puts his hand on Derek’s arm as he digs for his phone in his back pocket. He leaves it there as he rings Lydia’s house, voice comfortable as he asks her older sister (who knew) for Lydia. He says, “Stiles Stilinski Initiative part two is AGO” and hangs up, like this is totally normal behaviour. He does the same at Scott’s house.

Catching sight of Derek’s face, he almost smiles. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while, just generally as an idea. For all of us. They all know about it, I mean, like I’ve told them.”

Derek’s struck silent.

*****

The others get to the house before they do, and it’s an odd experience, having a bunch of people surrounding the house without intending to harm anyone inside. They stand, uncomfortable on the porch; Lydia keeps checking her heels like she’s scared that she’ll scuff them on the charred rubble. Derek’s confused as to why she’s wearing six inch heels to a house clearing. He has to swallow down the general feeling of dislike, especially when Stiles shoots her a slightly awed smile, which she returns gently as they approach the house from the drive.

“Hey,” Stiles calls out and Scott huffs in relief. Derek’s following every line of movement from all of them; Isaac’s standing slouched, like usual, but comfortable, which seems to be influencing Scott a little, his pose isn’t as defensive as it could be. Danny, the computer kid looks wired and tense, shadows underneath his eyes, signs of sleeplessness, mirrored in Lydia’s face.

But none of them smell scared, and none of them are emitting any signs that they don’t really want to be here, like they’ve been strong-armed into it by Stiles (which he suspects). No, they all genuinely want to help.

Derek feels on edge. In general, people do not _willingly_ want to help him; this has to be a first.

Stiles is a little awkward, glancing back and forth between the others and Derek. Constantly. It irritates him so much he sidles up to Stiles, and they stand shoulder to shoulder while Stiles surveys the house, verbally.

“We need to clean out all the debris first,” Stiles says, voice almost tentative. Derek nods, in total agreement, because the shards of blackened glass and material will take an age to remove. “The structure, or the foundations are what worry me- I think we’ll need to get someone in to look at that, I think. Danny’s mom’s like the best architect in town, so we’re good on that end; she’ll have good contacts.”

“Don’t we need planning permission?” Scott points out, arms crossed. Derek realises that everyone’s looking at him, and that he probably should know the answer to this question. He frowns at their stares, which makes Lydia sigh.

“We need planning permission, which Stiles filed for last month. We’re still waiting on them, but I think if we get Stiles’ dad and Danny’s mom involved, we’ll move the guys on a little.” Lydia says, voice pleasant but exhausted, already.

Stiles nods seriously. “After we clean out everything- then we’ll get the people in to secure the foundations, so the walls, floor and roof. If that’s good then we’ll have to move onto replacing the windows, gutter system, and then electricity. Finally, there’s the interior design half.”

“Which I can cover,” Lydia points out. “My mom’s in interior design. I know my stuff, the talent’s genetic.”

“Sounds like a piece of cake,” Scott mutters.

“I think you should be worrying about what kinds of cake you’re eating, then, Scott, never trust anything from a Werewolf oven.” Stiles says with a faint smile. He already looks tired and that’s when Derek remembers that he’s running on no sleep, but instead six energy drinks.

“How many people do we have to hire?” Derek asks. He’s been avoiding looking at his bank accounts, since Laura, but he knows he can cover any and all of the costs. He just wants to know how many people he’s going to have to deal with.

“Danny’s mom, builders and then guys to come in to wire the house. I think that we can help to actually build the house, all of us, I just don’t trust Scott with an electrical supply.” Stiles says, voice confident.

Derek blinks. Stiles has done _research_ into this, a lot of it, and he can’t help but take this the wrong way, like all of this is being done _for_ Derek. He’s still wrapping his head around that part.

“Just tell me where I need to sign,” Derek replies, and is rewarded with a grin from Stiles.

“Let’s go people. This place needs to be finished before school starts up again, so we’ve got just less than a month.” Stiles says and the rest of the pack openly groans.

The others saunter into the house, ignoring the stark red Alpha pack symbol on the door, which tells Derek that they know about the pack; he assumes that Stiles told them last night. During his all-nighter.

He places a hand on Stiles’ arm before he sidles into the house after the others, and he revels in the fact that Stiles doesn’t even flinch away from his touch.

“Thank you.” He says shortly, looking in Stiles’ eyes, but he licks his lips so of course Derek drops his gaze to his mouth. They’re both looking at the other’s mouth.

“No problem,” Stiles says, as gentle as Derek has ever heard him. “For the record, you probably want to get all your stuff out of here ASAP. Before the others mistake it for debris.”

Derek inhales quickly, realising that he’s going to have to rent a room at a motel, which he technically can’t do. An Alphas territory or den (although he snickers at the phrase) _has_ to smell like it’s theirs. A motel smells like a bunch of other people, and even if he brings along Stiles’ entire wardrobe collection the room will smell nothing like it should. Like it has to. He groans openly.

“Looks like I’ll be sleeping in the Camaro for a while,” he mutters, squinting at the car. He could fit in the front seats (he can barely fit his duffel bag into the back seat; there is no way he’s fitting in there).

“What?” Stiles sounds half-irritated, half-resigned.

“I can’t stay at a motel when it doesn’t smell like it’s mine,” Derek says, a little embarrassed, but masks it with a scowl. “It smells like too many people.”

Stiles hesitates but huffs a breath. “You treat my house like it’s yours, anyway. Guess you’ll be staying with me. You can sleep on the inflatable bed. It’s not like my dad’s even home, he’ll be in Seattle for the rest of the summer, I’ll bet.”

“Are you sure,” his voice is uncertain, tentative. It makes Derek start; he doesn’t sound like himself.  

“I wouldn’t have offered otherwise,” Stiles points out. “Go on roomie; go get your stuff so we can have our first sleepover tonight. By the way, I feel that I should tell you that I kick in my sleep and if I take too much Adderall, I can talk for days on end. I feel that roommates should know the worst about each other.”

“Thanks for sharing, Sherlock,” Derek says. Stiles grins and jogs up into the house, after the others, where Derek can hear them all bickering about who’s going to buy dinner.

He’s managed to get a pack in the matter of a day.   

*****

Slowly, they fall into a pattern; Derek gets them both there early, and rejoices as Stiles still wants to help him out, although he’s afraid that he will wake up one morning and regret everything. They set out the plan of action for the day (the others are better when they have a sense of direction) and they talk while they wait.

 They seem to spend every minute with each other, and yet they haven’t run out of things to talk about, mostly because Stiles has seen all of his stuff. He’d honed in on the books and comics immediately, while Derek had flushed. Stiles looked like he wanted to hug him after he produced the entirety of the Game of Thrones series, but he held back. Either way, Derek can tell Stiles is pleased by the amount of books, shows and comics they have in common. It means that there’s not much they don’t talk about, although family is generally off limits, for both of them.

The atmosphere of awkward Stiles emits slowly evaporates, over the days. They eat Poptarts on the porch as the entirety of the pack (all four of them) start to arrive, even though the chocolate Poptarts, the ones that Stiles is addicted to are a little too sweet for his tastes, but he’s not complaining. Seriously.

He can admit that he has something completely unprecedented and precious (he feels like Gollum, like he’s got five golden rings, like he’s in a Christmas song) just within his grasp- Stiles is practically leading with him, it’s a heady sensation, with an almost _full_ pack. There’s laughter and noise in the house again, and it scares Derek, especially with the amount he spends on pizza every single night (although Lydia’s starting to complain about the food, which makes him wonder whether Stiles will kill him if he gets food from the new Vegan place in town), but more than anything, he’s feeling more and more content. The foundations of the pack are coming together, after only one week; they just fall together so _simply_ ; joined in the agony of having to wake up early in the summer break. Derek will take what he’s got.

After that first week, it seems overly simple, because Danny’s mom bothers the city council for them and apparently they were going to cough up the permits in less than a week, anyway, but they get permission before the week’s even over. In that time they’ve cleared all the debris from the house, stealing the cars to drive the bigger chunks to the dump at the end of every day.

Derek pays for a several builders to come in and secure the foundation, walls, floor and roof, which is an agonising task. Danny’s mom is nice enough, and looks so much like her son that it’s comfortable to talk to her as she designs the house, all three floors, letting Derek input, although Stiles does it more than he does, inadvertently.

The pack helps out the when they can, but there’s so much they can do, especially when the builders begin to reconstruct the back portion of the house. Derek just prowls behind the builders, making sure they do their work, instead of smoking and gossiping, because they’re apparently old southern women reincarnated. He goes with Stiles to get lunch, because otherwise everyone would order in pizza, and they’d end up having it twice every single day.

Stiles sits out front, on the recently put together porch with his laptop or a book every day, while the pack sits scattered around him, largely talking, but a few of them (Lydia and Danny, even though it should be Scott and Isaac) bring over their books and study. Isaac and Scott talk in undertones, and Derek doesn’t even know what they talk about. It makes Stiles snicker, whatever it is.

Danny and Lydia are a little subdued, but take comfort each other’s presence; Derek knows that Jackson’s parents took him out of town, and they don’t know when he’s going to be back. Danny’s lost basically a brother, and Lydia a boyfriend, and Derek doesn’t know what to say to them, apart from the offer of a sarcastic comment. He’s certain that wouldn’t be well received, so he lets Stiles handle them both, although he’s has to fight back a flare of jealousy when Stiles talks about them at night, just because he talks about them both like they invented Xbox.

It only takes a couple of weeks of the builders working around the clock to have the foundations, walls, floor and roof secured. Derek stands in the empty shell of his house, Stiles at his side, as they look around the new/old Hale house. The place isn’t quite a carbon copy- there are fewer, but bigger bedrooms, because he can admit that his pack will never be the size of the old pack.

It’s different seeing his house with all the walls standing, and whole.

It isn’t painful, but instead a release- a breath of fresh air- like he’s free from the ties of the accident. He still feels guilty as hell, he doubts whether that will ever change, but he can accept that after spending a week with a bunch of sixteen year olds, that while he can’t quite forgive himself, he doesn’t loathe himself as much as he did.

It’s mostly due to the newfound respect he’s found for himself, after staying sane after the temptation of Stiles. Sharing a room, in a totally platonic manner with his mate, the guy whose scent he was born to find hypnotic, is more difficult than understanding Christian Bane in the last Batman movie (which he made Stiles watch, both sharing baffled looks throughout the film). Best yet, he hasn’t jumped Stiles, not even once, not even after that one time when Stiles had a shower and used locker room etiquette and walked back into his room just wearing a towel, seemingly uncaring of the fact that Derek was lying on his bed, and dropped it while searching for underwear. He said “Sorry,” voice light; unaware of the fact that Derek was caught between needing to jerk off and having a painful panic attack.

After inspecting the house (all three floors, which is still amazing, that his house has three _solid floors_ ) they give the pack the rest of the day off, while they go and buy stuff so their part of the house rebuilding can begin. Derek’s pleased to note that the others don’t go their separate ways, but instead go to the movies, because they’ve gotten used to spending a lot of time together and apparently a day spent without the others is not a day.

He smiles openly at this, after they leave, of course, until Stiles spots it and calls him a doofus, but he smiles too, so Derek’s continues smiling until he’s filled up his quota for the day. He pushes Stiles into some underbrush as punishment for the mocking, but the kid continues to snicker as they shop at the hardware store. Although Derek’s not sure whether he’s laughing at that, or laughing at the fact there’s a type of wood apparently the exact shade of human crap.

“I have no idea how we’re going to get this stuff in my house,” Stiles breathes, staring at the tins of wood stain and panels of glass piled on the conveyer belt at the checkout. “You do remember that my house is in fact smaller than your mansion, right?”

“We deliver,” the girl behind the counter offers with a broad smile, aimed at Stiles. He grins and praises Jesus, in her vague direction. She continues staring at him while Stiles fishes in Derek’s wallet for enough cash, because Derek’s currently carrying groceries, which will become their dinner, and a Stilinski dinner apparently involves enough food to feed the entire pack.

Derek cocks his head and raises his eyebrows at her in a harsh glare until she stops checking out his mate instead of their shopping. He gives her a smirk as he leaves because Stiles tucks his wallet in Derek’s back pocket, like he’s grown that comfortable with Derek. After the second day, when Derek stopped a pillar from crushing him to death, it’s safe to say that he trusts Derek entirely and he proclaims that Derek is now one of his ‘bros’, not just some guy he kind of shares a pack with. Derek may or may not be smug about this fact.

They get the food back to the house in one piece, probably because the Jeep is fixed, but in the garage. The car had cost three thousand dollars to fix, and Derek wanted to bring himself to resent Stiles for it, but he couldn’t. The pair of them have mostly been using his car, not because he doesn’t like ‘Tasha’, but he thinks that maybe she should take a break…Stiles gave him the darkest glare, but hadn’t fought him, although Derek catches him muttering darkly whenever he passes the garage.

Stiles gets Derek to start cooking the food because he can feel a spider on him (he walked through a spiders web in the hardware store) so he’s going to go and have a shower. Derek rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue, because he can cook and they’ve become so domestic that he can’t turn down the opportunity to feed Stiles.

He does notice, however, after like thirty minutes the water’s not running and he ventures upstairs. He worries for a minute that Stiles is masturbating (once Derek caught him, and it’s actually excruciatingly painful to even think about, because he had to wrench himself away from just getting on his knees in front of Stiles and sucking him down to the root, he just wanted to _taste_ ) but instead finds him sitting cross legged, surrounded by some of Derek’s books on lycanthropy, scattered like they’ve fallen out.

He can smell the books, dusted with bitter ash, almost flame tinted from across the room.

He feels a hot flare of anger, a brief feeling, like it’s an invasion of privacy, but he remembers who he is dealing with. It’s Stiles. Derek belongs to Stiles, with all he is, so he can’t blame him for looking at his books. Derek stands in the doorway for a second, looking at his mate, at all the ways he is familiar, and how he still looks so different, so perfect he doesn’t even look real, haloed by the lingering daylight.

The image is ruined when Stiles begins to panic, semi-afraid.

“Dude, I’m sorry, I was just looking for some extra towels at the back of my wardrobe and they just fell out!” he gestures wildly at the wardrobe, like Derek had no idea where his wardrobe was. He can’t detect a lie in his words, not that it would matter even if he had. He’s as whipped as cream, he realises. “They’re books on lycanthropy, but they’re from before, aren’t they? From the fire.”

They’ve never talked about his family before, and Derek knows that he should push him away. He should snarl something about privacy and glare with irritation, like he used to, and still sometimes makes himself do, at Stiles. But he is suddenly exhausted. He’s tired of pushing, of running, and for once, he lets himself have something.

He nods mutely, afraid of what Stiles is going to say next.

“Can I, um, use them?” Stiles asks carefully. “For research purposes, you know, for the notes.” Stiles had shown him with pride the encrypted document he’d made on werewolves, on everything he’s learned about Scott.

Derek huffs out a deep breath, staring into Stiles’ eyes which, yes, are more familiar to him now but still knock everything out of him, because they’re so warm, it’s like he can feel their caressing warmth as they track his face, his emotions.

“You can…just be careful with them?” They still smell a little of old Hale pack, Derek can smell them from here, and this is all he has left of his family, his mom’s books. Derek remembers doodling in them when he was younger, and he’s certain that his little kid drawings are in the back of one of the faintly charred, leather bound books. This is a sign, he wills Stiles to realise, and he’s giving him a piece of himself, a piece from his past. Something of himself.

“Of course,” Stiles says firmly. “I’ll treat them better than I do my Xbox.” And that is one hell of a promise, although Derek does roll his eyes, fighting a laugh, because that is typical Stiles.

*****

He blames the books for the nightmares he has that night. He wakes up, panting, still breathing in the imaginary ashes, the scent of burning flesh. He’s sweating, and it itches his bare chest. He’s gasping for breath, partially Shifted, and crap, he’s clawed through the inflatable bed. Stiles had predicted that this would happen, and once again, here’s proof that he is always right, dammit.

The whistle of air being let out of the bed wakes up Stiles, of course it does. Stiles half shouts and throws himself at the lamp, managing to knock it off, although Derek thinks that Stiles was going to use it as a weapon, of sorts.

Derek grabs it with one hand and turns it on, putting it back on the bedside table.

“Derek?” Stiles slurs. “What the _holy hell_ are you playing at?”

“Nightmares, breaking your furniture, nothing new,” He shoots back, stepping away from the entirely collapsed bed with a disgruntled noise. Great. Now he’s going to have to sleep on the couch.

Stiles spots the bed and laughs, throwing his head back onto the pillow. “Of course you did.”

Derek growls at the stupid bed for not being tougher, which makes Stiles laugh harder.

“Your couch better be comfortable,” Derek grumbles, snatching his pillow.

“Dude, I’m not going to make you sleep on the couch, get over here,” Stiles says airily, voice still sleepy. He pulls his pillow over, shifting, clearly making room for Derek on his bed. “I used to do this with Scott when we were younger. We’re bros too. It’s okay.”

Derek stares for a moment, before moving so fast he’s basically a blur. He doesn’t let himself think about the ways in which this is a bad idea, because he is a _bro,_ Stiles doesn’t think of him like Derek thinks about _him_. Stiles bounces on the bed as he settles down. They’re inches apart, shoulder to shoulder, and Derek is holding himself back with everything he is, until he realises just how tense he is.

“Don’t strain yourself, sourwolf,” Stiles yawns, turning his head to the side, displaying the unblemished skin of his throat.  “Night.”

And like that, he’s out like a light bulb. Derek snorts quietly before stretching his hand slightly, just touching Stiles. He shivers at the sensation because it’s almost like he’s touching a live wire.

Somehow (he suspects the sheer amount of food they’d eaten earlier on in the evening) he falls back asleep in a matter of minutes.

*****

Derek cannot be trusted to keep his hands to himself, as is evident from the morning. He wakes up to an armful of Stiles, literally; he’s slotted against him, as close as he can get. He has an arm wrapped possessively around his waist, nose buried in the nape of his neck, so he has the taste of Stiles in his mouth. It’s wonderful and he’s bathed in pleasure, so it kills him when he has to move away, but of course he does.

It’s like a dream that he has to wake up from.

He goes to get some water, because he needs to wash this diluted Stiles taste out of his mouth; it’s like he’s been licking at the back of Stiles’ neck. He pours himself a glass of water and drinks it at the sink. He blames the sleepy state he’s in when he realises that Melissa McCall, Scott’s mom, is standing by the backdoor, mouth open in horror. Derek jumps and drops the glass. They both watch as it smashes loudly on the ground, splattering them both with water.

They stare at each other in silence, both shocked and wary.

Derek hears Stiles shout out upstairs, and get out of bed.

“Derek _Hale?_ ” She says, entirely confused. Her tone is not warm.

“For God’s sake, Derek,” Stiles complains, striding towards Derek. His mouth gapes open when he notes that Derek is only wearing boxer briefs, his boxer briefs, in fact. “What the hell are you even doing-”

“Morning, Stiles,” Melissa interrupts pleasantly, voice sharp.

Stiles screams and falls backwards into the fridge, clutching at fridge magnets that fall away and litter the floor.

“I think we should talk.” Her eyes are glittering, with suppressed laughter, Derek thinks, but he can’t be sure because her mouth is set in a serious line.

“Sure, Mrs McCall,” Stiles says uncomfortably. “Er, Derek, can you give us a minute?” Derek nods mutely and backs out of the room, not because he’s terrified of Scott’s mother, but well, he’s terrified of Scott’s mom. “Would you like some peaches?” He hears Stiles offer quickly. “We have good peaches. Actually, scratch that, we only have prunes. Like three years old prunes. Um, if you don’t mind food poisoning I would definitely recommend those…”

His voice trails away as Derek goes back to Stiles’ room (technically though, it’s their room, and Derek really likes this) and gets changed and washed in record time. He scales down the side of the house and waits in the Camaro, because he can fight Kanimas, his uncle, those he’s fine with, but the parents of his pack members are things to be feared and respected, at the same time. He ducks down in his seat as Scott’s mom leaves, noting the uncertain look she shoots him with.

Stiles clambers into the passenger seat, clutching two Poptarts, one of which he hands to Derek.

Derek shrugs at Stiles, a clear, _well, what did she say?!_ Because he has a mouthful of Poptart, and his mom raised him better than to speak with his mouth full.

Stiles has no such objections and laughs a little as Derek pulls out of his house.

“She was checking up on me for my dad. But she congratulated me on my booty call, I think,” Stiles says, wrinkling his nose. “And that she won’t tell my dad if we’re safe and I never tell her anything about our relationship.”

Derek stares at him open mouthed. “And what did you say?”

“That you’re more anal about safety than anyone I know. Pun unintended.” Stiles laughs even when Derek cuffs him lightly around the back of his head.

Derek grits his jaw, because Stiles is sixteen years old, and he is jailbait, he knew he was. He’s suddenly lost his appetite and lets Stiles finish off his Poptart.

All thoughts of this horrific encounter go out of Derek’s head when they reach the House, and he can smell that something is not right before he even sees them.

An unfamiliar scent is on the wind; pure copper taints the air, almost palpable, and the scent of the Alphas. He growls before he can help it, he can’t stand that scent so close to the House.

He almost shifts fully, in shock, when he sees them.

Crumpled on the porch, barely recognisable, save for the golden hair and muscular build, are Erica and Boyd.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THIS IS SO LATE THIS WAS SO DIFFICULT AND I APOLOGISE PROFUSELY. However, this was originally one chapter, but it was so long (I love writing AU) that I decided to make it two. So, Happy New Years, the next chapter is going to be up by tomorrow. It's the least I can do. Then we'll be back to the chapter every three days thing, which I've sorely missed. As always, mistakes are my own.   
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING I LOVE YOU FOR READING THIS <3 Follow me on tumblr: haleyestosterekandmalec.tumblr.com if you want someone to talk to about Teen Wolf.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pieces of the pack seem to fall together, if by fall you mean joined in painful healing, an undying admiration of Marvel movies and a shared fear of the approaching Alpha wolf shaped storm.

If Jackson hadn’t left Beacon Hills (and wasn’t a werewolf) then Derek would bet that he’s been cut, because he freezes in place, numb with shock.

He watches Stiles run to them, shouting at him all the while, and that’s what pulls him out of this state; his mate screaming his name. Well, he’s yelling ‘Deaton’ at Derek, but he gets the picture.

He pulls out his cell-phone as Stiles yells at the pair to _wake up._ It doesn’t work, but he does successfully strain his throat screaming at them. Derek can’t ring Deaton, he can’t get his claws to retract. They just won’t go in. Derek can smell Stiles’ panic, and because this is a crisis, howls, low and loud, for the rest of the pack. Stiles grabs his cell-phone when Derek can stand to approach the porch and calls Deaton for him, although he has to explain several times what’s happened as his voice is panicky, stuttering. Derek doesn’t hear the end of the call.

And Derek establishes that the pair can actually recover, that they’re not dead, as he first assumed. They just look like they haven’t had a moment to heal themselves, like they’ve been kept conscious with torture for days on end. The sight of them makes Derek want to throw up but he keeps it together, for all of them.

The pack responds to their first crisis this summer in varying degrees; Danny and Lydia arrive only minutes later, like clockwork, totally unaware of the situation, whereas Scott and Isaac drag their heels a little, arriving thirty minutes later. Derek growls at them with crimson eyes, and they duck their heads in apology, Scott’s apology ruined by his stiff posture.

 Stiles, Danny and Lydia drive Erica and Boyd back to his house, in the Camaro and Lydia’s car, because as Stiles points out, the shell that is the Hale house has no furniture. They would have to recover on the floor, which Stiles apparently won’t stand for. He’s gone into survival mode, or bossy Stiles, as he likes to say, and the pack automatically follow his orders with small nods.  Derek wonders when he trusted Stiles enough to drive his car.

The werewolves in the pack (Derek suddenly realises that now, with Erica and Boyd, the werewolves outweigh the humans, that is if they choose to stay) hunt in the forest for the fading scent, but Derek could have predicted from the offset that whoever or whatever left them on his doorstep have long disappeared. He finds himself sprinting back to the Stilinski house, and he would like to know when he started to think of the place as home.

He lets himself in using the key above the backdoor (which he’ll get Stiles to remove, thinking about it, it’s a really obvious place for a backup key) and finds the Stiles in the living room.

Derek’s nerves feel like they’re on fire, sizzling with anxiety as he looks over Erica and Boyd. They’re spread out, parallel, on the insanely large couch (apparently it’s needed for football season, he suddenly remembers Stiles saying) while Deaton, already there checking them over. Stiles paces just behind Deaton, eyebrows furrowed, biting at his bottom lip. Danny and Lydia are nowhere to be seen.

Derek’s suddenly intensely grateful for Stiles; he’d been the calm, logical one while Derek’s senses had gone insane. Derek still can’t retract his claws and he knows his eyes are blood-red. Apparently all bodily functions are failing him today.

“Come on dude,” Stiles says firmly, suddenly in front of Derek. He wonders when he approached, and that is a sign that Derek’s really out of it; he’s acutely sensitive to every single breath that Stiles takes, not just because he is ridiculously in love with the idiot savant but also because every movement is like an assault on his senses. Which are blunted by fear and panic, and he wonders how much of what he is feeling is his.  

He lets Stiles pull him fully into the kitchen, while Scott and Isaac pass them. Scott places a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and smiles tiredly at his best friend. They exude anxiety for their pack mates, even though it’s not technically even a pack, yet. Not officially (or as official as it could get).

He feels Stiles press him into a seat before a cup of water is put into his hand. He’s falling apart and he has no clue way, except that he’s become comfortable, vulnerable, in the last few weeks, with Stiles’ new found acceptance (of him) and the house and the feeling of pack. He’s looking into Stiles’ doe eyes, trying to remember how to breathe properly.

“They’re going to be fine, come on,” Stiles half scoffs, though the words are jittery with nerves. “This is Boyd and Erica we’re talking about here.”

Derek nods. His words all make sense, but try telling that to his panicked brain. He only calms the hell down when Stiles clamps a hand on his shoulder, eyes basically boring into his. Derek wonders when Stiles managed to get to him, so that even the deadly serious golden brown stare of his eyes warms him thoroughly, calming him entirely.

“Do I need to get a brown bag out?” Stiles asks suspiciously, with the air of someone who’s done this a million times before, like he’s dealt with an Alpha having a panic attack. Derek shakes his head, but his heartbeat still sounds like Stiles’ when Derek takes his shirt off (Derek’s favourite reaction to his shirtlessness _ever_ ). Stiles hugs and digs in his pocket before producing a slightly battered inhaler. He holds it out to Derek.

“After Scott changed and was dumped by Allison (the first time), he had a panic attack but thought it was asthma. This was his, and he used it, and it totally worked. So maybe it will work on you. Doesn’t really work on me. Not that I get panic attacks anymore, really. But old habits die hard.” Derek hesitates but takes it. His mouth explodes with the sensory overload that is the taste of Stiles, and it’s in fact a lot of saliva he has to swallow before using it. Stiles hasn’t used it, his ass.

It forces him to stop panicking, he notes as he returns it. First piece of human medicine that has ever worked on him. Stiles has this satisfied little smirk on his face as he sits opposite Derek, and he wants to keep that smile- the one _he_ caused- on his face all the time.

Stiles starts to speak, but Deaton cuts in. Derek shoots him a filthy look over Stiles’ shoulder as he pauses just inside the entrance to the kitchen.

“Good call, calling me Stilinski,” the doctor says pleasantly, clapping Stiles on the shoulder.

“How long until they’re better?” Stiles asks, cutting to the chase. Derek blinks- he was about to ask that.

“I can hazard that if they continue to heal like they are, it shouldn’t be long,” he says vaguely. Stiles rolls his eyes. Derek wonders if he knows he’s doing it, or if he does it to teachers.

“How long? As in _hours_.” Stiles says, a hint of irritation in his voice.

“About seventy, give or take a few,” Deaton says slowly, like he’s talking to an absolute moron. Stiles rolls his eyes again.

“Thanks for coming,” Stiles says, a clear dismissal.

“No problem, Stilinski,” Deaton responds. “If you want to trigger the healing process, you know what to do, Derek; try an eighth of a cup.”

Derek nods gravely, and wonders if he can persuade Isaac to go and get his stash of Wolfsbane. Stiles blinks for a minute, confused, but it hits him and he grins, pleased with himself.

“You’ve known me since birth, doc, I think you can call me Stiles. We’re there.” Stiles calls at the doctor as he turns to leave.

“But that’s not your name, is it?” the doctor responds without a beat. Derek blinks, confused as he leaves, Stiles huffing out an irritated breath.

“I feel betrayed,” Derek tries to joke. “What is your name then?”

“My mom chose my name.” Stiles says tonelessly. “But after she died I cut my hair and changed my name. You’ll get to know my real name…uh…never.” He walks away, into the living room, leaving Derek officially curious.  

*****

Three days of hell would be more accurate.

Derek feels like he gets about two hours of sleep, and he’s irritated- no, irked- that Stiles won’t sleep either, out of sheer stubbornness. It’s not essential that two people watch over Boyd and Erica- Isaac and Scott are taking alternate watches on the house, while Derek’s on high alert basically every minute, muscles tense and ready to jump at any moment.

Stiles ends up shouting at him about it, when they’re watching a movie at low volume in the sitting room. It was Stiles’ idea that the sound of Steve Rogers voice will help to wake them up. Derek’s unconvinced. But they argue about the fact that Stiles has had about as much sleep as Derek has, and they’re both exhausted and cranky (Stiles says Derek turns reptilian when he doesn’t have sleep, and Derek resents this) and Stiles’ scent is getting up Derek’s nose in a totally delicious and irritating way.

In the end, it’s what Erica wakes up to, the sounds of their sniping match.

 “Can you shut up?” Erica grumbles, sitting up. Stiles shudders, open mouthed, caught between a grin and gulping in air in shock. He sits down immediately on the sofa, between the pair of them. Derek’s gaze is torn between all three. Boyd sleeps on, oblivious to Stiles’ quick breaths, Erica’s pained whimpers. Derek envies him.

“I thought you knew me, Erica,” Stiles says a beat too late. “When have I ever shut up?”

“Point made,” she nods and groans. “Fuck. My- well- everything _kills._ ”

“You’ll find that when you’re almost killed,” Derek grumbles. Her eyes turn to him and her face hardens.

“Derek, I-” she starts, eyes almost shining with an apology, but he cuts her off with a wave of a hand.

“Just leave it, okay?” he says, voice gruff with affection. She nods, accepting but turns her head into the sofa. Sitting between the sofa and her head, however, is Stiles. Who stiffens awkwardly when her head connects with the crook of his shoulder. She snuffles there for a minute as he pats her shoulder, muttering something that sounds like, “huggie, huggie, huggie.”

She huffs out a laugh but doesn’t move, tucked into Stiles’ arms. Derek tears himself away from the sight, because he can feel that he’s needed at the house. Nothing to do with the fact that he has a dead character or two in his eye. 

*****

Boyd wakes up exactly three hours and forty five minutes later. Derek knows this because he receives a text full of excited emoticons, followed by ones with actual words: _the prodigal son returns_ from Stiles. He doesn’t grin so hard his face hurts. He doesn’t. There’s no one around to see it, anyway, the others are working up on the roof, trying to fix the guttering system while Lydia and Danny shout advice (or insults, Derek can’t be sure, they sound remarkably similar) to them.

Stiles is either the best person to sit with them and keep an eye on them, or the worst one, depending on your interpretation; he keeps asking them if they’re okay, and forcing junk food and Whedon movies down their throats.

It takes five days exactly for Erica and Boyd to break.

Derek checks in on them regularly, even though Stiles keeps texting him things like: _does Boyd always lie on the floor like that without moving_  and _I swear to God if Erica keeps falling asleep on me I will barf._

Derek’s making the betas work harder than before, and it might be to do with the fact that he wants to have Erica and Boyd _home,_ with Stiles, as soon as possible. Stiles isn’t there to make jokes about the betas and mutter at Derek when he’s too harsh, so he pushes them to finish and work faster. They’re grumpy without him, unsmiling, and clearly miserable. Stiles shows him the increasingly desperate texts that Scott’s been sending to him. Well, tough. Half of the pack over at the Hale house have supernatural strength, and while they’re waiting on some Alpha-y action, they’ve only been using it for their chores (he knows that Isaac helps Scott out).

A little hard work won’t kill them (although he has to remember that Danny and Lydia aren’t wolves, so he can’t begrudge them a half an hour break every now and again).

Still, he finds himself leaving the house every couple of hours and checking in on the others. Not that he’ll ever admit it, but it’s more than needing to _know_ that they’re still with his pack. He just needs to ease that little scratch in his skin that had been itching like crazy when he didn’t have all of them in his pack, he just needs to know whether they’re okay, or not.

Stiles seems to have it covered, though, whether that means holding back Erica’s hair back while she pukes black crap (which he tells Derek he has to do a couple of times), or get a heat pack for Boyd’s strained muscles, or ice cream for all three of them at the end of the day. It means that they bond, really fast and really close.

Their relationship with Stiles is interesting. They’ll snap at each other, Erica especially, but it’s usually arguments over weird things, like whether Andrew Garfield will make a better Peter Parker than that weird Toby McGuire kid. Erica’s strangely devoted to the weird actor.  

Boyd’s silent, but in a thoughtful way. He was hurt more than she was. They’d been vaguely merciful, when it came to Erica; they hadn’t cut off any of _her_ limbs, time and time again. They both can’t really talk about it; two werewolves with PTSD weren’t exactly what Derek expected, but it’s what he’s got. Stiles is careful with them, when they bring up what happens.

Boyd sits there and smirks, which is standard for him, but they’re both secure around Stiles. Trusting. It’s something to witness, really, it is, because Stiles laughs openly and honestly around them, as he would with anyone else his age (and with Derek, although he’s more laughing _at_ Derek) but then there are times when bossy Stiles will appear, and they’ll still stick with him, won’t doubt him. Especially when it comes to ordering in food, because even he can admit that Stiles is a God when it comes to finding a semi-nourishing meal in Beacon Hills, for the entire pack, for under fifty dollars.

 Derek feels a lot less hollow inside, these days, and these stupid kids are _getting_ to him, he realises, as he checks in on them one Friday, on the fourth day. They’re all asleep on the sofa, watching _Iron Man._ Stiles blinks sleepily at the screen, snugly surrounded by Boyd and Erica’s sleeping bodies; Erica’s bared her neck in her sleep, towards Stiles, as she would to any Alpha, and it makes Derek want to howl with happiness until his voice is sore. He wouldn’t know how to do that, though, so he stays silent.

Stiles sees the look on his face, though, and smiles back, small and sweet, before slipping under.

 

“Stiles, I will kill you if you keep force feeding me poptarts,” Erica groans out, voice high as Derek slots her shoulder joint back in place. Her other joints are in place, and Derek can _smell_ that she’s itching to Change, to run, to bound through the forest. As human as the past few days have been, she’s dying to be inhuman for a few hours.

“How can you not like Poptarts, that’s like not liking chocolate,” Stiles retorts from upstairs, voice loud enough to hear as he hunts down his _Lord of the Rings_ three disc DVD. Apparently it’s needed for what Stiles is calling the ‘healathon’.

“I don’t like chocolate,” Erica spits out, face bone white. She’s sweating and Derek wants to lean down and pass her the cold compress that’s drenching the couch with herb infused water.

Stiles bounds down from his room and pokes his head into the sitting room.

“Did you just say that you don’t like chocolate?” He says. He looks mildly disgusted, by her words, Derek thinks, not the shoulder that’s popped out of place. Figures. “How? So if you were offered the choice between raisin and chocolate chip cookie, you would totally go for the raisin?”

Erica almost screams as her shoulder’s finally popped back into place. Boyd shivers as she makes the sound, but looks mildly comforted when she leans her head on his shoulder. He smiles down at her, but she can’t see. Stiles is pale, heart beating a mile a minute. Derek wants to go and reassure him with his hands, but that would be weird, at best. Painful and full of rejection at worst.

“Raisins are weird,” she pulls a funny face to emphasise this fact. Christ. His pack’s spending too much time with Stiles. “Like, who even thought about getting a grape and putting it in the sun and leaving it for later then putting chemicals all over that? What kind of sick son of a bitch thinks like that? But, yeah, I suppose. I’d go for the raisin masquerading as a fruit over chocolate, which can have bugs.”

“Interesting to know that you have vendettas against fruit,” Stiles mutters, raising his eyebrows before going to get some other food product that will probably raise the cholesterol of his pack, but won’t harm Stiles’ father, Derek sees what he’s doing. He’s fattening up Derek’s pack, and he really shouldn’t like this fact.

Point proven; Stiles returns with a bag of salted popcorn.

He slides in the disc and Derek resigns himself to watching the films for the three hundredth time this summer. It’s not like _Lord of the Rings_ can ever get boring, really. Stiles slides next to Derek, basically falling off the sofa. Derek rolls his eyes and shuffles up. Stiles smiles at him gratefully, unaware that he’s got ulterior motives, he just wants to get Stiles closer to him.  

“Only ones that really aren’t fruit. Like tomatoes. Not a fruit.” Erica says firmly, stuffing herself with the popcorn, obviously enjoying the healathon more than Derek first assumed.

“Like Pluto, not being a planet.” Stiles adds, for some unknown reason.

“I’m still hurt by this fact,” Boyd says and Stiles nods in sympathy. Derek’s confused.

“Weren’t we talking about fruit?” He points out and Stiles shoots him a narrow eyed gaze.

“Irrelevant,” Stiles scoffs, through a mouthful of popcorn. “Why aren’t tomatoes in dessert?”

“And I’m irrelevant,” Derek mutters darkly. He takes the popcorn with him as he leaves for the Hale house, because the Stilinski family has heart issues, this is common knowledge. Well, common knowledge for a guy with the internet and too much time on his hands.

Stiles boos him out of his house, but it doesn’t stop him from smiling the whole way home.

No one has to know.

 

When he returns a few hours later, hands bruised but healing, Stiles sits between Boyd and Erica, even though they’re both fully conscious, and, finally, fully healed. Apparently it’s for ‘decency’s sake’ Stiles jokes, but Derek guesses that he likes to feel like others are near him. His mind flashes back to a memory; Stiles sobbing alone at night, only eight years old, crying mindlessly for a mom that wasn’t there and a dad that was working. Derek watches, contentedly on as they munch on the takeout Chinese food he’d picked up for them on the way back to the house.

He may or not be forcing the others to work around the clock, but he’d left them money for food too. It’s child hard labour, he realises, but it’ll be worth it when the house is finished. It’s not like he’s going to hang around after the movie ends, he’s going to go back to the house, but he’s finding it increasingly difficult to leave when half of his pack are releasing inviting scents of contentment, and Stiles is giving him the sad doe eyes at the mention of his departure. 

His inner wolf is basically on a Caribbean cruise.

It’s through the second viewing of _Captain America_ that Erica and Boyd break it to Stiles that they’re sick of watching Marvel creations (‘sacrilege!’ Stiles says when they say this, tossing an egg roll at Boyd which he deftly catches and proceeds to eat).

“Stiles, I love watching Steve Roger’s ass as the next girl, or guy, and don’t even get me started on his voice,” Erica starts, and Stiles shoots Derek a significant look. He can smell the smug _I told you so_ behind it. “I need to see my parents and get that stuff sorted out, and I need to go for a run, and Change. I’m dying here.”

“Not on my watch,” Stiles says, half-joking, but the other two fall silent, almost subdued, like they do sometimes around Derek. They’re sorry- Derek can smell it on them, just how sorry they are, and he’s trying to work through it. The first words out of Boyd were an attempt at an apology, before a pained cry ripped through at the conscious sensation of breathing. He’s not sure whether they’re sorry for choosing to leave in the first place, or getting caught- twice- either way, Derek’s going to need some time to get over it all.

Stiles sits bolt upright suddenly, brain practically _whirring._

“My watch,” he mutters, eyes focused on whatever scheme he’s brewing in his head. Derek will never understand what goes on in his head, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. “There are eight of us.”

It all clicks for Derek, in that he- for once- understands Stiles in an instant. He feels like he’s been waiting for this event for almost a year. Stiles wants to put them all in pairs, set them up on watches around the town- maybe even the county- to see if there’s any stock in the rumours going around town, the ones about small animals and older parents going missing. The ones they’ve both been thinking about. It could be nothing, a couple of pranks gone wrong and a dementia-riddled brain making them wander off, but it doesn’t sit right with Derek. The plan is stupid and brilliant and risky, a Stiles Stilinski creation, through and through. He nods. Can’t be worse than walking into the Argent household with no warning.

“Less chance of us going alone, getting hurt,” Derek says. Stiles grins, glad someone actually understands him without having to actually explain it all out loud.

“Not all of us understand,” Erica complains. “We’re not all weird mind readers. Use your words, Stilinski. Explain.”

“It’s not my fault Derek and I are tight,” Stiles says easily.

“As tight as your ass,” Erica half-sneers, half-flirty. Stiles flushes darkly and doesn’t look at Derek pointedly. His scent of embarrassment feels like it’s climbing under Derek’s skin.

“Enough,” Derek snaps, sharp enough that she blinks. “We’ll pair up, split up the map of the town and look around it. I suppose you want me to split it up with Argent, too.” He grumbles, but Stiles smirks at the last part. “We’ll check it out.”

Erica smiles and Stiles and mouths, _see, words_. Stiles flips her off. They smile at each other, easy and mischievous.

The other four turn up, all in different stages of physical exhaustion. Lydia looks the most pristine, while Scott looks like he’s gone running in the Sahara, judging by how much he’s sweating. They mutter hello and something about finishing the last part Derek wanted done before tucking into the remaining noodles. Lydia sniffs at them all, but steals the last egg roll from Derek’s plate, because she is a life ruiner. People have been killed for less. Stiles frowns at him and shakes his head lightly. _Don’t even think about it._ Dear god. Stiles knows him.

They all joke over the food, even if Scott mostly ignores Erica and Boyd, reading old messages on his cell-phone; Stiles talks to all of them enough that it doesn’t matter, even while Derek’s thinking. Isaac and Danny apparently have shockingly similar music and movie tastes, and both keep high-fiving each other, though he can’t tell why. Erica’s answering some of Lydia’s questions, voice a little tense, but she’s talking. Boyd is debating with Stiles the pros of WoW versus the cons of Runescape (his mate has no taste, clearly) when the idea hits Derek. He doesn’t have an ulterior motive; it’s just a flawlessly logical plan. Spock would be proud, in Stiles’ own words.

“We’ll pair up in terms of ability, I think,” Derek says, ignoring the actual children that he calls Pack. “Erica and Boyd, Scott and Isaac, Lydia and Danny.”

“But…”Stiles weakly protests.

“Yes?” Derek asks, voice half-dangerous, half-seductive. He ignores the exaggerated exhalation Erica makes and her raised eyebrows as her gaze flits between Stiles and Derek. The others are watching with barely suppressed smirks, even Scott. “Is there a reason why you don’t want to work with me?”

He feels stung in spite of himself.

“No-o,” Stiles drags out the syllable, forcing out fake laughter. “But we’re not right on skill levels. I can’t fight. Much. Not that I’m undervaluing myself here, or anything.”

“But I think I can cover both of us, it’s not like we’ve fought together before, or anything,” Derek says, grinning in a way that’s supposed to be reassuring, but is somehow showing too many teeth. He’s just overwhelmingly pleased that he will get to surround himself in Stiles’ scent for a good few more hours _, alone._ “We’ll work out shifts.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and mutters _sourwolf_ under his breath but doesn’t fight any further.

Derek does technically trip him up lightly when he gets up next.

He doesn’t miss the significant looks the others swap, though.

 

Derek thinks that he has a bad experience with getting water from the kitchen. He’s in the equivalent of his pyjamas (Stiles’ shirt and sweatpants) when he discovers the pack meeting taking place in the kitchen. Without him.

He hides behind a wall, a few feet away from the kitchen, standing in the centre of the living room. They’re playing music to obscure what they’re saying, a technique that Stiles came up with a couple of weeks ago, when he was planning a present for Scott’s birthday (spoiler alert, they got him the Star Wars DVD set), but he’s close enough that he can hear everything.

“It’s so weird- when did I start to think of _Stiles_ as someone to take orders from?” Erica asks. There’s a murmur of voices in agreement.

“When did this become a thing, like Stiles leading us with Derek?” Scott says, voice harsh. “I thought this was just supposed to be against the Alphas, this summer; this was me doing a favour for Stiles.”

“Really, Scott?” Lydia says, voice clipped, and Derek’s never been more thankful for her than he is right now. “This is something permanent, we’re fixing his house, for God’s sake. I spent every waking minute with you psychopaths, would I do this willingly? Besides, I owe Stiles, but it’s more than that. If you repeat this, I’ll deny it, but I like spending time with you guys.” She sounds intensely uncomfortable.

“What is Stiles getting out of it, though?” Scott sounds honestly confused.

“That’s what I wanted to talk about.” Erica cuts in, voice satisfied and gleeful. “He’s here for Derek, he’s doing this _for_ Derek, can’t you guys see it? Look at the way they act together, holy God, you’ll see it. They _like_ each other, as in, want to bump uglies with each other.”

Talking breaks out among them, disordered, all processing this news.

“I’m with Erica,” Danny says. “Even though I’m still unsure whether they’re related or not, seeing as no one will tell me otherwise, there’s UST everywhere. You can actually feel the sexual tension.”

“UST?” Isaac repeats.

“Homoerotic subtext, or unresolved sexual tension,” Boyd says. There’s silence as Derek assumes everyone looks at him. “What? I watch _Supernatural_ , okay, I know my shit. So sue me.”

“How did I miss this?” Lydia says, voice confused. “So that’s why he ditched me that night after the game…”

“Do they even know?” Danny asks. He sounds like he’s suppressing laughter while Derek’s having a silent panic attack, and asking the ceiling-a.k.a. God- _why._

“No idea,” Erica says dryly. “They’re total pre-schoolers.”

This is the point at which Derek wonders when all of his Betas got so damn smart.

*****

Oddly enough, the only slot left for Derek and Stiles to patrol in is the longest, the six hour ‘date slot’, someone’s written helpfully next to the box, on the sheet Stiles had written up. He suspects Lydia that writing looks like her slanting scrawl. Imagine that. So they’ll be eating together on a regular basis (which they arguably do anyway, but it’ll be alone, instead of surrounded by the actual pre-schoolers that Derek calls his pack).  

They move into the Hale house the morning the Patrols start. Stiles brings a duffel bag full of stuff, and Derek knows he has a stash of Reese’s in there, he can smell it, along with a stack of DVDs, his laptop, a few books and even some clothes. It’s only for two weeks, technically, but it’ll be easier for all of them, especially as they’re starting the interior design half. All hands on deck are needed, and even Derek can admit that it’s unlikely that Stiles will injure himself while painting.

He thinks.

Lydia takes Erica and Boyd shopping, because they’d been ruining Stiles’ clothes previously, before she brings some stuff to the house herself. Scott doesn’t move in, but he brings over his Wii, which apparently (according to Stiles) means that he’ll be at the house for a good few more hours. Erica’s parents have effectively kicked her out, so she’ll be living in the house, as will Isaac; Boyd and Danny are the only two that don’t move in, in the end, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have rooms at the house.

It seems too simple, sometimes.

He’s still working on wrapping his head around the Pack idea. It seems that, gradually, they’ve fallen together; even the way that Lydia takes Erica and Boyd shopping, it’s something she would never have done before. There is, however, this niggling part of Derek that bites, and it argues that Scott isn’t as dedicated as he seems; he’s still pining after Allison, and only his brotherhood with Stiles and budding friendship with Isaac’s keeping him with the pack. Likewise, Derek’s _terrified_ that Stiles will up and leave, because he _could,_ now dragging the betas along with him, because he’s certain that Stiles has befriended all of them.

At lunch, before they start the watches, Derek’s quiet, thoughtful. He sits next to Stiles at the head of the table, a subconscious decision on his behalf, his arm draped casually over the back of his chair, hand against Stiles’ back.

The environment had been, at first, awkward and stiff with all eight of them; Stiles still gave off panicked scents when Derek glared at him, but they were only faint, and dwindling by the day, and there was no horror. Not any more. Stiles knows that Derek will never _really_ hurt him, so he doesn’t release surprised scents when Derek will do something remotely nice, like picking up _Reese’s Puffs,_ because they were a poisonous cereal Derek would never eat, but still bought them for Stiles.

It makes Derek happy to see the twist in Stiles’ smile when he takes a bite (Derek acknowledges that it’s odd to eat cereal for lunch, but apparently one does not just eat Reese’s Puffs for breakfast). The others jostle for toast, because Stiles is what they like to call a necessity cooker; basics. Derek’s the only one who can provide food for all of them (ordering in food doesn’t count, Stiles) which he likes. Being needed. It’s a heady sensation. At his stare Stiles grins, a beam, his eyes warm and Derek freezes.

How the hell can he deal with Stiles alone?

 

Stiles notices his worry, of course he does. It makes him worry in return. Derek can’t tell him, of course, because he’s still trying to maintain the cool, Alpha façade, although Stiles knows all about the comics and his detailed knowledge of Celtic history.

They need to paint Derek’s room, that’s their task for the day, and Derek loves that his room already smells like the pair of them; sunlight and forest, warmth and books, because there’s no scent as powerful as that one.

“Come on, decorating _one_ room won’t kill me,” Stiles protests.

Derek raises his eyebrows. “Doubtful.”

“Shut up,” Stiles says shortly. “It’s just painting. I can paint, you know, I’ve been doing it since Kindergarten. Without killing myself or anyone around me.”

“Are you sure about that?” Derek asks innocently. Stiles flicks forest green paint at him and he ducks. Paint splatters against his cheek and the wall. Stiles beams, which is not an excuse for Derek ignoring the paint on his favourite Henley, but apparently it is because he just focuses on Stiles.

“I _told_ you this was a good colour,” Stiles says. “The guy on the DIY Channel says it brings out the light in a dark room.”

Derek is still pleased about the fact that Stiles watches DIY shows- an entire channel even- for him and his house.

 “Why have you got the medium sized room?” Stiles asks. “Why not have the- I don’t know- main one at the front of the house? You’re going to give Scott a superiority complex.”

“It was my mom and dad’s room,” Derek says stiffly.

“Sorry, foot in mouth disease,” Stiles mutters and rakes a hand through his long-ish hair. It’s grown, into hair that Stiles runs his hands through; it’s straight and looks like he’s constantly just had sex. It’s more distracting than it should be, especially with the small hairs he has on the nape of his neck that Derek just wants to curl his fingers in. He realises that he’s gotten horribly distracted, and Stiles is watching him warily, like he’s scared Derek’s going to bite him or something stupid like that.

“It’s fine,” Derek says, swallowing past his dry throat.

They work together in companionable silence, strangely comfortable and broken by bouts of arguing as they spread paint around the room; they discuss Derek’s ever-lasting love for the Yankees, which Stiles scorns and tries to tempt him into loving the Mets instead, even though it’s never going to happen. Stiles can stop trying to force him into his Mets shirt. They go serious for a minute and discuss beta hierarchy, which they’d argued over the night Boyd and Erica returned to consciousness. Derek’s second in command, is, in theory Isaac, followed by Scott, Erica and Boyd, but where do the humans lie?  Stiles knows his place, he’s the Alpha human, but the other two cause difficulty.

There needs to be an Omega, which is where the problems arise; Jackson would have been the Omega. They bicker back and forth, for what turns out to be hours; Danny pops his head through the door, letting them know that now he and Lydia are back, it’s their turn to Patrol. Derek raises his eyebrows meaningfully at Stiles. _See,_ Danny would be the perfect Omega, he’s just good at delivering messages.

Erica stops them at the bottom of the staircase, thrusting a basket full of takeout food at Stiles. “It’s dinner for you both,” she mutters, clearly uncomfortable.

“I’m totally their favourite,” Stiles says, surprised, like it’s news, but grins. “See you puppies later.” He bounds out of the almost finished house.

Derek shoots her a look.

“It feels good, giving him food. A part of me really…likes it.”

This is where Derek’s mate instinct influences the pack, but it makes him happy, because this means that they are attuned to him, far more than they ever were before. He rolls his eyes, fighting a smile, for propriety’s sake.

“Shot gun,” Stiles calls as Derek crosses the porch.

“There are only two of us,” Derek points out as he approaches the Camaro.

Stiles sits down in the front seat, smiling when he realises that he’d left half of energy drink, because he’s _disgusting_ in the cup-holder.

“Guess our emotional baggage will have to go in the boot, then.”

*****

“So we’re just going to _sit_ here, for six hours?” Stiles asks, although it’s the sixth time he’s asked since they parked on the back streets, on the other side of town.

“Really?” Derek says incredulously, with a mouth full of cooling egg foo young.

“I’m just looking confirmation, here,” Stiles protests.

“Until half one, then Scott and Isaac take over,” Derek repeats, and it’s not like Stiles planned it himself, or this was idea. Clearly not.

“Yeah,” Stiles taps out a rhythm with his fingers on the dashboard. Derek likes him sitting here, in the front seat of his car, lounging back like he belongs here, which to Derek, he does.

“I feel bad for Lydia,” Stiles blurts out, frowning over the top of his chocolate milkshake. “Even though when she shot me down it kind of led to my inadvertent one night stand.”

Derek hesitates, a mouthful of omelette inches away from his mouth. “That’s terrible?” he offers, stomach suddenly tight with pain.

“Short-circuited there, did you Derek-droid?” Stiles says, half-joking.

“What do you want me to say, exactly? I’ll bake a cake for both of you?”Derek asks, voice hard.

“Don’t be stupid, Derek, I know you can’t bake,” Stiles points out. Derek rolls his eyes.

“I just wanted to talk to you, I guess. I like talking to you about stuff that matters when you’re not glaring at me and shooting me down with your eyebrows, stop them man, I can’t take it,” Stiles says.

“I like talking to you too,” Derek says, surprise furrowing his brow. He’s staring at Stiles with total vulnerability, almost smiling, because dammit, his mate _likes talking to him._

“You can lower the eyebrows now, Derek, I’m not going to kill you,” Stiles says dryly. “But I think I’ll kill Jackson for doing this to them- Lydia and Danny.”

“It’s his parents that wanted to get him away from here, it’s not his fault,” Derek feels compelled to point out.

“He could have fought them, or something. Gone to live with Danny for two years.” Stiles says, throwing his hands in the air. “But nope, he willingly went and now Danny and Lydia are all, like depressed, and joined at the hip. For example, when we first started, I called Lydia, expecting it to just be Lydia, but nope, Danny was there too. Weird to think of the pack without him being there, now.”

Derek makes an agreeing sound through the Chinese food.

“It’s kind of weird that I miss Jackson, right? I mean the human jackass, not the werelizard.” Stiles sounds confused. “Or at least, I miss seeing Lydia and Danny smile, like properly.”

“It’s not weird, because once people are gone,” his voice is rugged on the word gone, and he may be projecting. “You miss the smallest, weirdest thing about them. Those are the things that stick with you, eat at you. Like my sister- she was unable to go a day without our Tevo. She could sit for three hours in front of it, watching reruns of _Gossip Girl_ and crying most of the time at Nate’s face, I think. It still reminds me of her, the show. Can’t get away with it.” He’s mumbling by the end and can’t directly at Stiles, like he’s the sun.

“Your sister sounded like she rocked,” Stiles offers, voice quiet, but smiling as gentle as he ever has, Derek thinks. It eases something inside him, that smile, and he manages to breathe through his tightly constricted chest, the cold, tight feeling in his stomach.

“Understatement of the century,” Derek mutters, suddenly hesitant.

He’s still scared of letting Stiles in, of these stories becoming something he shares with Scott, something that they toss around and discuss like his memories have no meaning. Relations are seventy per cent better (he’s been spending way too much time with Stiles) but Scott’s still a little wary around Derek, still quick to distrust him. He’s there while Stiles is though, and that’s what matters. For now.

“My mom,” Stiles coughs out, voice sad and harsh in equal measures, rubbing over his face at the tears that have sprung to his eyes. He’s not looking at Derek, pointedly. “She used to read stuff to me at night, before bed- like _The Hobbit, Chronicles of Prydain, Harry Potter_ \- while my dad worked. He worked the night shift a lot so she’d have to pick me up from school, take me back to the DA’s office. I’d read and mess about on her computers until we’d go home, then she’d make dinner for both of us. She was literally the best chef ever.” He pauses and looks at Derek, his face more serious than he’s ever seen it, eyes too old and sad for his beautiful face.

Derek nods, taking in every detail that he can.

“Why are you letting me talk,” Stiles says, trying to cover the waver in his voice with laughter. “I’m expecting your eyebrows to shut me up any time now.”

“My eyebrows don’t talk,” Derek says softly, and Stiles full on laughs.

“They’re magic, I wouldn’t be surprised if they did. It’s not weirder than a walking poisonous boy lizard.” Stiles chokes out between laughter that’s somewhere between a sob and a snicker. Derek just wants to pull him into his arms, hold him there. He’s a second away from giving into his instinct.

“Stiles, I-” he starts, but something slams into his car.

OF COURSE IT DOES.

Derek glances at Stiles’ face and wrenches the door open, shoving the take out off his lap. The streets are dark and empty, but a scent still lingers, irritating Derek’s senses- it’s unclean and bloody, horribly familiar. He shifts partially and sprints after it, pressing Stiles’ shoulder as he goes past, a clear _stay here_.

He follows the scent, hoping for a sight of something, until he realises that he’s run in a circle- Stiles skids to a stop next to him, because of course he hadn’t stood still, he’d followed Derek- the Camaro lies ahead, glinting in the moonlight.

Stiles collapses against the side of the Camaro, and Derek has this terrifying moment where he thinks Stiles has hurt himself, but no, he’s just dying from a lack of oxygen and inactivity.

Derek lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He stares at Stiles’ head, ducked behind the car, and feels resigned. He feels like he’s given Stiles everything, every part of him, because he’s already stolen his heart, made it his, his home now isn’t home without Stiles in it, and he’s about to give him the only thing Stiles doesn’t have; his body (not in that way, not yet, Derek’s still waiting on that one).

“I’m teaching you how to fight,” Derek calls pleasantly to Stiles and hears the responding groan of anguish.

“Really?” Stiles asks. “I’m fine. Ninja like even. There’s no need for you to start singing Mulan. I’m totally fit.”

Derek raises his eyebrows, gesturing to Stiles’ heaving chest, the sweat trickling down his face that Derek just wants to _lap_ at. Stiles huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Fine. But this in no way hinders my significance as co-pack leader.”  He says seriously, ducking into the car. Derek smiles. He loves the fact that Stiles takes his role so seriously.  Not that he would tell him.

“Who said you were co-pack leader?”

“The contract that’s keeping the Argents off your ass?” Stiles points out with a pleasant smile, and Derek knows that he’s kidding himself if he denies that Stiles is anything but his equal. Not that Stiles needs to know this.

 

“Gonna…kill…you,” Stiles pants, on his thirtieth sit up. His arms are weak and his frame is shaking. He’s drenched in sweat, and it’s making Derek salivate.

“Uh-huh,” Derek says smugly, because he gets to see his shirt turning see through with his sweat. No one else. He gets to watch Stiles’ body get more muscled under his hands.

“Gonna…rip…your…throat out…with…my…teeth,” Stiles huffs between sit ups. 

“I’m sure you will,” Derek acknowledges, with a totally serious expression on his face. He can’t keep a straight face. It’s not his fault.

“Fuck…you…” Stiles grunts, with one last sit up. “Remind me how doing cardio helps me with killing ‘wolves? What am I going to do, burn calories at them until they stop breathing?” he’s gasping for breath by the last word.

“No, but you’ll stop breathing during a chase, if you’re not fit enough.” Derek says, helping him up. He searches the cabinet for the baseball bat, the one he’d bought especially for this purpose. “You can’t outrun one of us, simple as that. But you need stamina during a fight, which you currently don’t have.”

Stiles flushes a pretty shade of pink, and Derek halts, confused. He didn’t say anything rude, had he? He rewinds and thinks of the word stamina, what else it’s useful for. Sex. Oops.

“We’ll…uh…improve it, is all I’m saying,” Derek says carefully, giving him a hopeful smile.

“Just don’t kill me in the process,” Stiles mutters as he watches the baseball bat, warily, chest slowing down, returning to his regular breathing.

“You can play baseball, right?” Derek says, smirking. “Better than the Mets?”

“Shut up,” Stiles says immediately, pointing at Derek. “Only _I_ can talk about the Mets like that.”

“When was the last time they won the World Series?” Derek points out.

“You lived in New York for like eight years, how can you hate the Mets?” Stiles protests wearily. This is a familiar argument for the pair of them.

“Because I lived in New York.” Derek grins. “I was there in 2003, I saw the season series sweep.”

“Shut up, you unholy Yankees fan, you,” Stiles grumbles and starts his press ups. He knows he’s supposed to reach a hundred, and Derek bets he’ll be able to do it today. Then they’ll go on to using the baseball bat.

“Do you remember the 2000 World Series-” Derek begins innocently and Stiles yells at him to shut _up._

He still continues smirking, though.

*****

After the first night- which Derek still isn’t convinced wasn’t a wildcat or stray dog, weirder things have happened- the town’s silent. But, as Stiles points out, it’s the wrong sort of quiet, like the silence before the devastating storm, like something’s going to happen. Until that moment happens, life goes on as usual, the finishing touches put on the house, painting and wallpaper and chandaliers. His head hurts to think about it.

There’s only a week until school starts, and Derek doesn’t like to think about that either. Going back to a silent house will be devastating. So instead, he quizzes Stiles on the books he’s read this summer for school.  They discuss Jacobean conventions over fries at midnight, in the only diner in town. Almost like clockwork, Stiles falls asleep around one thirty, on the drive home, and Derek has to carry him into the house. He lays him carefully on the large bed, handling him with all the reverence he can afford. He goes to bed in the room opposite. Derek bitches about it, and pretends to mind, but it’s so transparent that he doesn’t, Stiles simply nudges him in apology. The pack shoot him incredulous looks and raised eyebrows, and Derek misses the simple times when they didn’t play cupid.

After breakfast, they’ll split up, Stiles going to the study to research everything under the sun (apparently Quebec is by far the largest producer of maple syrup, responsible for about three quarters of the world’s output; who knew) while Derek works out, doing pull ups in his bedroom. Then he’ll come and discuss fighting strategy at Derek, until his scent of attraction and affection becomes too much to bear. This is followed by Stiles’ work out, in which he’s taught to fight against werewolves, with bats that make his nose tingle, especially after Deaton gives Stiles a master class on different brands of Wolfsbane and powders. Stiles builds up his strength and stamina, until he can run two miles and still be alive and solid at the end of the distance.

Derek gets really distracted by his body; the near perfect stretch of muscles across his ribcage, the mole he has just below his right pec that Derek just wants to _worry at_ with his _teeth._

Once Stiles is basically a sweaty, delicious mess (Derek’s in serious agony, you have no idea) they’ll part ways, Derek to make lunch and to wake up Scott and Isaac (their sleeping patterns need some major work) while Stiles showers, putting Derek out of his unknown misery. The pack still tries to eat lunch together, but it’s usually missing Danny and Lydia, or Erica and Boyd, depending on the day; Stiles leaves them food aside. Everyone’s sleepy, mumbling around their food, while Stiles shivers with energy and asks a seemingly endless number of questions at Derek. He doesn’t want those questions to ever end.

They’ll paint the walls of the house until it’s time to go back on patrol. It’s arguably the best routine Derek’s ever had.

That is until Stiles’ dad comes home and demands that the annual Stilinski camping trip extravaganza (Derek suspects that Stiles added the last word) needs to take place.

*****

It’s like a tightness in his muscles that he can’t just ignore; if this were real, he’d have a hot shower, but all the showers in the house can’t help him when he’s missing Stiles’ presence. The house feels empty (a mean feat, seeing as there are effectively six other people there most of the time) and he realises with misery that he’s grown accustomed to Stiles sleeping close enough to hear his heartbeat; the halls are eerily quiet without that melodic beat, without his small sniffling snores.

The pack itself reflects Derek’s moods fairly well. They’re subdued, almost miserable, Derek would say but he’s too busy scowling down at his protein shake because it’s not Stiles. He’s questioning all his life choices. He’s _not_ pining, nothing close to it; it’s just that the pack is difficult without Stiles there. Well. More difficult.

They like to impress Stiles, for all the joking they do with him, they care about him; Scott’s pushing food around his plate; Isaac looks like he’s doing algebra in his head, he looks so uncomfortable; Erica’s leaning on her hand, bored, no, wait, she’s actually gone back to sleep; Boyd, Lydia and Danny mutter under their breath and scoff at the others, but they haven’t laughed in a day.

Yes, that’s all it’s been. A day. They can’t even last a day.

Clearly no one in the Hale pack likes it when Stiles goes on vacation without them.

He exercises, and that doesn’t even feel tight, not without the rising scent of Stiles’ attraction in the air, a little sweet, like the rain in the summer when it hits the trees. There’s no voice mocking him, or yelling _Run Forrest Run_ when he jogs on the spot, and he may need psychiatric help because he’s missing being insulted.

The difficulty is, of course, that he can justify going to Stiles and his father, which makes his stomach clench in now-horribly-familiar-thanks-for-that-Stiles anxiety. The Alpha pack is close by, and if they’ve been paying attention they would have noticed how close he and Stiles are. How differently he treats Stiles to the others. That’s not to even mention Derek’s scent, which is so thoroughly combined with Stiles’, he can even smell Stiles on him now, after a shower. Stiles’ scent is the same. Derek wouldn’t have it any other way, but he’s effectively painted a bull’s eye on Stiles’ back. He’d assumed that he would be there to stand between the arrow and Stiles, and _what is he even waiting for?_

He uses his nose to track them in the preserve and really, they’re only six or so miles away, deep in the preserve. The distance is like a mosquito bite on the back of his neck that he can’t quite reach. He stumbles onto their camp, after watching for a while, because Stiles laughing fully erases the pain in his body, eases the tension.

He walks onto the camp, staring at Stiles with wide eyes as his mate gulps for air, running a hand through his hair. He looks absolutely terrified, his eyebrows impressively severe against the pearl white flesh of his face.

“I have also come to be at one with nature,” Derek says shortly, jaw tight. The Sheriff is frowning, but isn’t reaching for his gun, which is a good sign. He thinks. He’s giving Derek the Stilinski Glare, something he’s too used to. He has two directed at him right now, even.

“Oh, have you now?” the Sheriff says, mocking. “Stiles I thought that the father and son part of the trip was an indicator that it was supposed to be just _us_. I didn’t invite the ex-convict, or at least I don’t exactly remember inviting you, Hale.”

His voice isn’t as harsh as it was, but it’s not pleasant. Yeah, he definitely knows about the Kitchen Incident (it deserved a capital letter), and holy shit, Stiles’ sarcasm is _hereditary_.

“Mother nature invited me?” He offers stiffly, jaw tight as he shakes his head at Stiles, thinking, _if you and your scent gets me shot at, I will damage your Mets shirt._ The Sheriff turns to look at Stiles for a better explanation.

“Dad, can’t he just stay with us? For one night?” Stiles asks, and Derek realises that his father knows just how close they’ve become, that they’re not friends, exactly, but something close enough to it that he lets Derek stay overnight, but still makes him fetch all the firewood and make dinner for them all.

*****

“He’s feeling bad about leaving me this summer, I think,” Stiles whispers later, tucked into a sleeping bag. “He thinks that we’re dating or something close to it, and this is you stating your intentions. I think that he’s trying really hard to do this right and be supportive, so he’s gonna let you stay.”

Derek nods, secretly jubilant but face serious and normal.

“Sorry that everyone thinks we’re dating. Major step down for you, I guess.”

“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” Derek says, a tinge of sad desperation in his voice.

“Any chance you’re gonna tell me why you’re really here?” Stiles asks, brushing aside Derek’s comment. Derek’s quiet for a moment, thinking on how to reply. Answers like _I missed you_ and _I couldn’t stand being alone_ and _I’m not sure but it may be something to do with the fact that I adore you_ won’t be appreciated, so it takes him a few seconds to reply.

“Bodyguard Derek Hale at your service, ma’am.” He mutters and Stiles snorts in response.

“Always appreciated, Derek,” Stiles whispers back, sarcastic, but Derek picks up Stiles’ scent, stronger than ever. He means that in a different way, he doesn’t just mean for the bodyguard service, he means as in appreciates, appreciates. The way Derek appreciated Stiles’ body (which was a painful experience) when he got caught out in the rain in that t-shirt, the way Derek appreciates Stiles’ ability to bring the pack together with just a DVD and a bag of popcorn.

Stiles is more than attracted to him. And Derek can’t do anything about it and he wants to scream a-ha! But he doesn’t because he’s not a giant child. Not always, anyway.

*****

On the third day, God does not invent a rifle, but instead Erica, Boyd and Isaac turn up. They have to sleep under the stars and Stiles’ dad is clearly unimpressed, and makes them cook breakfast the next morning.

He still shows no sign of kicking them out of their campsite though, and after they talk football for an hour and a half while the others make dinner, he asks Derek to call him John. Stiles looks hugely impressed and Derek’s certain that this is the proudest moment of his life. Screw piecing together his first car.

The day after that, Lydia and Danny turn up, bearing gifts of coffee, donuts, and a six man tent. Stiles’ dad is slightly more relaxed after this happens.

Scott finally turns up last, confused as to where the hell the rest of the pack disappeared to.

*****

They have one peaceful afternoon of fishing. Stiles turns out to be freakishly good at it, while his dad smiles proudly on and tries to explain the logistics of fishing to Isaac, who still seems unimpressed and a little saddened by the idea of snaring animals on a fishing rod. Derek will never get over having a werewolf who is actually a vegan in his pack.

Lydia’s using physics to catch them.

Danny, Erica and Boyd try to grill the ones they _have_ caught, while Scott tries to catch the fish with his claws. It’s not working, exactly, he’s just fallen in a few times.

Stiles and Derek sit on a rock, basking in the sunshine, feet dipped into the crystal clear stream. It’s icy cold, harsh on his skin, but the warmth of Stiles next to him more than covers it, until he goes to get sun-cream lotion for his fair skin (because he got sick of Derek’s subtle nagging).

As is everything in Derek’s life, it seems to fall apart just when things are near perfect.

Stiles’ screams shatter the peaceful calm of the afternoon, and his fear slams into Derek. Before he consciously realises, he’s sprinted to the campsite and beside Stiles in a heartbeat. Then he looks around. They’re surrounded by Alphas, in their human form, but this isn’t right; they don’t look like they _should._ They’re red eyed of course, but wild-haired, antsy. Nothing like he’d imagined, organised, with a clear hierarchy, and it’s immediately clear that the leaders- as far as there can be- aren’t here.

That doesn’t mean they don’t attack, though, because they have no problem with spilling blood; one tears into him as soon as they near.

Stiles shouts at Boyd to get his dad out of _there,_ producing the bat from behind his back and wielding it fiercely.Derek wants to congratulate him, because Boyd, while he won’t admit it is still too weak to fully fight.

There’s no time for that though, because the Alpha pack submerges on them.

*****

He fights back to back with Stiles, in the way they’d trained, movements comfortable and familiar even as the Alpha pack pulls them away from the others; there’s one particularly ferocious Alpha, itching to tear at Stiles’ skin that just won’t leave them alone.

Derek snarls and takes pleasure in delivering the kill, the clean precise swipe of claws over the artery in his neck, blood gushing everywhere. He turns to Stiles, bloodied, sweating, but blood pumping through his veins in an almost frenzy.

His mate stands a few feet away, in a circle of darkening summer sunlight, dousing his body in soft, golden light.

“Stiles?” He says, worried, because his eyes are all black, with only a hint of golden brown on the outside, dilated with fear and adrenaline. Stiles deliberately stalks towards him, as close as he’s ever been, and puts his mouth firmly on Derek’s. Derek lets himself have this, have _him,_ for a second.  

Derek can honestly say that he never imagined their first kiss being like this.

Full of adrenaline, they’re both shaking with it, or something else, a frankly _aggressive_ kiss with an edge of sweetness to it, hot and sharp and _real,_ like a game of tag, rather than the fight to be dominant, like it always had been with Kate. Stiles’ tongue licks its way into Derek’s mouth, like it belongs there, which it entirely does, Derek has decided. It’s law. 

Stiles clutches at the front of Derek’s jacket, like he would-could- go anywhere when he finally has him in his arms.  Derek just clutches on to any part of Stiles that he can reach; he thinks he might be holding onto the side of his hip and the nape of his neck, his blunt nails are digging into the soft curls that he’s wanted to touch for so long, as Stiles kisses him earnestly, with the edge of desperation, like he’s a dying man and Derek, cliché or no, is his oxygen.

He makes a sound embarrassingly close to a groan, but Stiles whimpers in response when Derek bites down on Stiles’ plush, bottom lip, sucking at the perfect curve of it. The crushed, hot velvet of Stiles’ mouth hangs open as Derek pushes closer to him, nipping affectionately at the perfect crook of Stiles’ neck, so they’re now touching in several strategic places. Derek can feel where they’re both hard, and if this is just _kissing,_ then sex will be unbelievable and he could die from it. At some point in time. When Stiles is legal.

Only a second later, Derek vaguely hears sounds behind them, feels Stiles recoil, and shout “SCOTT!” at the top of his lungs.

He sprints away, back into the fight, brandishing the bat in his hands.

Derek staggers a little.

So that’s what being slapped by God feels like.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING <3 SORRY IT'S LATE. LOVE YOU GUYS.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Stiles get into a difficult situation. Emphasis on the word difficult.

He can vaguely remember what happens after The Kiss (there’s a need for capitals); running over to help the others decimate the remainders of the pack, which solidifies his line of thought that these were not the Betas of the pack. They sent them the Omegas, the ones that weren’t needed, because they’re too easy to kill, too simple to fight.

 

This doesn’t mean that they get a few hits in, though, because Erica’s got a gash across her cheek, Scott’s been caught on the top of his arm, Isaac’s bleeding on his leg and Derek has a scratch on his side. Emphasis on the word scratch.

 

Irony is that only the humans are uninjured.

 

Danny’s clutching a stray frying pan (something to do with _Tangled,_ apparently), Lydia’s refusing to abandon her Mace while Stiles hands are turning white with how hard he’s holding onto the bat. Derek has to pry it away from him, holding it at arms length.

 

The pack leave the slashed tents and bodies behind and hobble to the Hale house. It’s thankfully untouched. He leaves the pack to lick their wounds, and drives Stiles home. He doesn’t smile, but wants to, when he sees Danny help Isaac to his room, clutching a roll of gauze, like the wound won’t heal in the time it takes to bandage it; Isaac looks pleasantly surprised, but feigns a wince when Danny looks at him. They smile at each other, small and sweet, unaware of Derek’s presence, and go upstairs, Isaac hobbling a little.

 

The journey back to Stiles’ house is full of tension, and when Stiles turns to say something, Derek is just staring at his lips, eyes flickering up, because his mouth is swollen. That is what Stiles’ mouth looks like swollen from kissing Derek, and his body is still shivering with the sensation of having Stiles pressed against him, and Derek’s gonna memorise that feeling. He wishes he could still feel that warmth.

 

But he lets Stiles get out of the car, with a muttered goodbye, and watches him walk into the house.

 

He goes home and doesn’t even pretend that he’s not pining. He doesn't get out of bed until past midday for the next couple of days and just paints rooms by himself, because the others are still running the patrol while he can't. He can't do it alone.  He hates that he doesn’t regret what happened, because he should, but he can’t apologise for that Kiss; that was a mate bond, newly initiated, burning, and it was everything.

But Stiles doesn’t know that.

 

He receives a text from Stiles, woefully bland, which reads that he had to explain everything to his dad, and he’s under house arrest for a while.

 

Derek can’t feel like this isn’t something to do with him, not even a little bit, and he might mope, but it’s totally justified moping. Totally.

 

*****

 

Derek can’t sleep. Well, he’s been unable to sleep since the night of The Kiss, partly due to misery and the inability to stop thinking. But there’s also that irritating part of him- yes, the part that belongs to Stiles- that just feels too _alive_ to even comprehend sleep. Usually he can suppress this part. But usually, this part doesn’t usually feel hyperactive at three o’clock in the _morning._ So it’s perfectly reasonable that he goes looking for Stiles. Or at least that’s what he tells himself.

 

Because he’s more than a little worried- the Alphas are still in Beacons Hill- and the only things that get Stiles wired to this degree are _fear_ and _excitement._

 

He’s too afraid that it might be the first, though. He uses his internal-Stiles GPS (he really needs to think up a new name for that), and finds him in Beacon Hills Preserve, not in _his_ territory, but a minute out from the border. Okay, so his pulse skyrockets at that and he can _barely_ contain himself from wolfing out and finding Stiles. Okay, so he can’t contain himself, and his claws appear, shredding the sleeves of his jacket. There’s something about him and Stiles and this jacket that just don’t mix. Before he even realises what he’s doing, he’s bounding through the forest.

 

What he doesn’t expect to find is Stiles, drunk, and laughing to himself, lying on the forest floor. He feels a jolt of panic when he sees him at first, further destroying his jacket, but calms as soon as he hears his voice. Then he gets a little angry.

“Stiles,” he says shortly. The teenager looks up and grins brightly. He never smiles at him, and the effect of it- unpleasantly- knocks the wind out of him. Damn mate principle.

 

“DEEERRREEEK!” Stiles calls. Derek winces, because the volume of that is about level with the level of Scott’s howl, back last year. So he’s just highlighted their position. The moon glitters overhead, a few days away from being full.

 

“You’re drunk,” Derek says, trying not to laugh, because he’s never greeted him with that much gusto before, and the kid’s trying to make snow angels in the dirt.

 

He’s going to get a cold, doing that, Derek suddenly realises; instinctive protection kicks in and he pulls Stiles to his feet. Stiles makes grabby hands motions for Derek when he stands on his own two feet. Derek feels stupidly pleased and moves closer; Stiles clasps the sleeve of his leather jacket. “Where’s Scott?” He needs to know just how thoroughly he needs to rip Scott limb from limb. Also, isn’t Stiles supposed to be under house arrest? He’ll need to redefine house arrest if this is what it’s supposed to be.

 

“He was here,” Stiles says with total indignation plain on his face. Derek actually laughs and Stiles smiles a little. It’s not like the kid will remember. “But he _left_ for Allison, I think. Something about being friends first. Jackass. I told him I’d stop drinking but you know… yolo. Unless you’re a werewolf. Or a cat. Similar creatures. You can be a Werecat, right? True Blood’s right, right? I say right _a lot._ Maybe because ACCURACY is important in a relationship, don’t you think so, Der-bear?”

 

Did he seriously just call him _Der-bear?_ There is something seriously wrong with him, because dammit if he doesn’t like that.

 

Stiles suddenly stumbles forward, and he lands solidly on Derek’s chest, until he’s only holding him up. Stiles’ hands are pressed flat against Derek’s chest and he _likes_ that more than he could ever really say. Stiles grins crookedly at Derek, their mouths level, which shouldn’t be this distracting, and says, “what’s got your heart racing, Mister Big Bad Wolf Esquire?”

 

Derek snorts a laugh. Little bastard knows exactly what he’s doing to Derek. Stiles huffs and actually falls; Derek catches him (thank you werewolf mating instincts) and slings him over his left shoulder, in a fireman’s carry.

 

“I LIKE PUDDING OKAY.” Stiles suddenly mutters. Before beginning a song that sounds something like Harry Potter, but a _musical_ version? Derek can’t fight the grin that’s on his face, although it’s tempered by the thought that Scott left Stiles _alone_ when _anything_ could have happened. He’s striding away, back towards the house, which pleases him; he can take Stiles back to his house now, back to his den, which he’s missed having him in…which really doesn’t sound great. At all.

 

Stiles suddenly sighs with contentment. “I like your butt,” he suddenly blurts out, and Derek actually forgets to breathe, jerking to a stop. Did Stiles just say that he found his ass attractive?  Oh sweet Jesus, he did. He did. _Stop reacting like a twelve year old girl,_ he grumbles at himself. He’s _drunk._ _Just because he’s never fully vocalised his attraction before doesn’t make this important._ “MOST BUTTS.” And Derek has to swallow down the choking sense of disappointment. “Almost all butts, thank you sexuality. BUT SOUR WOLF, YOURS IS _THE_ SHIZ OF BUTTS. THE MAYOR OF BUTTVILLE. THE PRESIDENT OF ASSERICA.” He’s declaring this with more than a little pride and admiration, and dammit, Derek is _preening._  

 

Stiles wraps his hands around Derek’s hips, over his dick, and he could say that this is why he misses the arrival of the Alphas. But he completely misses their arrival until he hears a low, growling voice hiss his name. He blinks. He’s surrounded by them; eyes glowing red, and he can’t help but feel this innate sense of _wrongness._ This shouldn’t be like this, it’s unnatural.

 

Then instinctive protection kicks in and he snarls, snapping at them. He does _not_ like them being anywhere near this close to Stiles. 

 

Before he realises, he’s shifted fully, until Derek is just the wolf, with a woozy, silent Stiles on his back.

_Goodbye leather jacket._

 

The next thing he knows, is he’s been shot and he’s going down. His body impacts with the forest floor, and feels Stiles clutch onto his back.  He hears Stiles scream his name, and he wants to roar at the Alphas, but he’s swallowed by darkness. 

 

*****

 

He wakes to the sound of Stiles moaning quietly. The sound, weird enough, turns him on and he has to remind himself that there is the very likely possibility that he is stark naked (because he shifted) and Stiles is seeing _everything._ The thought jolts him awake, and he thankfully notes that some nice but technically evil Alpha put him in sweat pants. Other than that, though, he’s as naked as the day he was born, but a whole lot less furry.

 

Stiles is sitting opposite from him, leaning against a brushed metal wall.  The space is small, four by four feet, and Derek can stretch his legs against the space. There’s a bench at each end of the room. There’s one door, and it’s locked from the outside. There are no windows, but one plastic lamp on the bench closest to the door.

 

“Morning,” Stiles says carefully, his voice scratchy like he too just woke up. He’s got his leg stretched out and his fingers tentatively touch at the skin below the kneecap. Derek can smell bruised, bloody skin, and knows it’s not his.

 

“How do you know it’s morning?” Derek asks.

 

“They’re pretty poor kidnappers, as they go, ‘cause they left us with our cellphones.” Stiles says, waving his about. 

 

“Please tell me you’ve tried ringing Scott,” Derek says.

 

“No, Sherlock, instead I’ve been playing lots and lots of _Snake._ Yes, dumbass, of course I have. No signal.” Stiles snipes. Derek rolls his eyes but gets the picture.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“Wow, a sourwolf asking if I’m okay _and_ helping me out when I’m drunk? Careful. A guy could get spoiled.” Stiles spits out, sitting up fully. Derek winces. It was just a _question._

 

“Stiles,” he says sharply, trying to put _I actually do care_ and _please tell me you’re okay_ and _for fuck sake just answer the damn question_ into his name _._

 

“Yeah, yeah. They just tried to kneecap me is all. Turns out, they didn’t like the fact that I struggled a bit when they tried to take me. Or, take us.” Stiles explains, his fingers wincing as Derek’s hand probes the skin. He can’t remember putting his hand there or giving it permission to, but it’s there and gently stroking the skin. He wants to take the pain away, but wonders if Stiles would let him.

 

“Can I?” He asks carefully. Stiles nods slowly as Derek pulls away the pain. He winces as it travels up his arm, throughout his body, but he’d rather he felt it than Stiles.

 

“Whoa, thanks man. It’s like a shot of morphine, except I don’t feel drowsy.” Stiles says, almost pleasantly, leaning his head back against the wall. “They’re the Alphas, aren’t they?” 

 

“Yes,” Derek says, “obviously.” Stiles pulls a face in response.

 

“Taking the alpha and the human of the pack sends a pretty clear message, don’t you think?” Stiles says thoughtfully, thinking out loud as he speaks. “Clear demonstration of strength and ability. That they can get to us and take us out whenever they feel like it. Will they kill us?” Stiles pauses and answers his own question. When did the kid get so damn smart? “Maybe me, to send a message, but unless they want that, because hello, we’d be dead already and I’m not even technically _in_ your pack, being human and all-” Derek feels a jolt of anger mixed with discomfiture, but Stiles blazes on. “I think they’re just trying to get as much information as they can and send us back bloody and beaten, like they did with Boyd and Erica. I’m feeling a Mafia kind of vibe from these guys. We could get tortured.”

 

“That’s right,” Derek says, pleased, brushing aside the pack insult. “Hopefully.”

 

“I just said that they could actually _kneecap_ me- the guy who can’t heal himself- and you’re _pleased._ Dammit, sourwolf, I thought we were friends, even if I’m not in your pack. You know. Progress.” Stiles huffs, actually indignant.

 

“I let you get away with a lot of crap if we weren’t friends. I’d just kill you or let you die if we weren’t.” Derek says, stung in spite of himself. For some reason, Stiles ears go scarlet red, and Derek remembers what he said last night about his _ass._ Derek perks up a little.

 

“Comforting to hear,” Stiles says with a smirk. He mutters something even Derek can’t hear about being hungry, and he wonders if the Alphas will starve them. To death. It’s a possibility.

 

The next thing Derek hears is footsteps- more than one set- coming towards them. He gestures at Stiles to shut up, and he falls silent. Derek hides next to the doorway, convinced that he can take them out as they step in. Stiles sits at the bench and rubs his hand over his face. Fear is coming off him in waves.

 

It’s pointless, anyway. They shoot him with a tranq dart, and he manages to catch the first dart, but they keep shooting at him. He falls to the ground and he hears Stiles scream as they drag him out, away, one of his feet catching Derek. He wants to hold onto him and never let go, but he’s falling asleep.

 

Derek wakes up hours later, and he’s still alone in the cell. He strains to hear Stiles, but all he can hear is the steady drip of a broken faucet. He can’t even hear any heartbeats. He doesn’t allow panic to cover him, swallow him whole, but he wants to. Stiles is _his_ responsibility, and they’re out there torturing him? What if they kill him? He’ll be a werewolf without his anchor. Again. He feels sluggish or he’d try to track Stiles. He just feels pained, and he doesn’t know if that’s him on his end or Stiles.

 

He’s not sure how- he’d wager a bet that says the tranq dart had wolfsbane in it- but he falls asleep. What wakes him up is the slam of Stiles’ unconscious body into his.

 

He hears the door slam, and the mutter of pleased voices on the outside, but he can’t focus on that. He sits up and flips Stiles over gently, so he can check him out. His skin all along the side of his jaw is bruised, like he’s been punched, and Stiles’ knuckles are raw. The skin on his forearms have red, angry welts on them, like he’s been shocked, and it’s pretty clear that they’ve been torturing him- one of his finger nails has been pried off. And that’s just on the visible skin. They tortured him like he was a werewolf- electricity and physical beatings.

 

Derek recoils for an instant, before dragging Stiles closer. He sits back against a wall and pulls his sleeping body into his arms, onto his lap, like Stiles had done in the pool. Except now they’re both drowning. Stiles’ face is buried in his shoulder, and Derek takes the opportunity to scent mark him _fully_ , like he’s wanted to for months. It appeases Derek a little, but every instinct is screaming at him to go and avenge what they did to him. He wants to go and kill. But he just holds Stiles, because, truth be told, he’s unsure whether he could bring himself to move.

 

Stiles’ heartbeat, a familiar sound, beats steadily on, providing comfort to Derek that he rarely lets himself have. He closes his eyes and draws away the pain while he can. Stiles whimpers in his sleep. Derek kisses the top of his head. He’s not sure why he does it, but he does. He goes for it, and when Stiles twists his mouth in a pained, sleepy grin, he’s almost certain that it was worth it.

 

“Sourwolf, can you just…talk to me?” Stiles groans less than a few minutes later.

 

Derek purses his lips. There’s a lot he would like to say to Stiles, not all of it appropriate, or relevant.

 

“If you wanted a bedtime story all you had to do was ask, Stiles,” Derek says shortly.

 

He huffs but doesn’t actually deny it.

 

“Pull a Twilight,” Stiles sniffs. “Old Native American lore…go ahead.”

 

Derek scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I swear to God, I _hate_ those goddamn books. It’s not realistic at all.”

 

“The whole imprinting thing though, I mean, you guys do mates and anchors and stuff. Sounds pretty similar to me.” Stiles sniffs.

 

“Did you just compare me to Jacob Black?” Derek says, and his voice is almost a snarl.

 

“Did you just know the name of the character without me having to say it?” Stiles shoots back. Derek winces. Laura had liked the books. She’d been Team Edward ‘because of reasons’.

 

“Do you want a story or not?” He snaps, suddenly irritated. His hands are still around Stiles in a bear hug (or a wolf hug, technically speaking) and squeezing just tight enough to be a warning.

 

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead…” Stiles yawns before leaning backwards, apparently forgetting that yes, that is Derek’s _bare_ chest his face is against. He squeaks. “Is this okay? You know, the whole leaning thing?”

_Would you be here if it weren’t,_ Derek means to say. Instead, what comes out is, “it’s fine. Great in fact.”

 

Stiles seems to relax while Derek has a minor existential crisis. _GREAT IN FACT?_  God, could he be more obvious. He deserves a hat with the words Captain Obvious on it. He’s sure Stiles could supply him with one.

 

“So old Native American legend goes that a woman found a wolf cub while out collecting wood for her tribe. The animal was alone, starving and close to death. She carried the wolf back to her camp where she fed him and kept him warm in her tepee.”

 

“That’s not a euphemism right,” Stiles cuts over.

 

“Do you want to hear the freaking story or not?” Derek snaps. Stiles grumbles an answer which sounds vaguely like a yes. “That’s what I thought. Now shut up. Anyway, he grew quickly and they became inseparable friends. One morning they went to the river to drink, and in the soft mud the woman saw their tracks from the previous evening; human and wolf footprints turned into two sets of wolf tracks.” Derek breathes in, hyper aware that Stiles is becoming sleepy, but releasing scents that are too distracting for his own good. He’s content. Still pained, largely afraid of what’s to come, but he’s _content with Derek._ Derek rumbles, low in his chest, which scares the Jesus out of him because, hello, not actually a wolf, and it was subconsciously done. If he were a cat he’d be purring.

 

“Confused by what she saw, the woman sought advice from the old chief who told her that as recompense for the tiny life she had saved, the wolf had given her the gift of existing in two forms: human and wolf. That evening she sat by the water with her wolf companion and looked at her reflection, and a female wolf looked back at her. The end.” Derek breathes in sharply. Stiles’ sent is so strong, so heady this close that he feels high. It’s officially ridiculous.

 

“I’m still convinced that the first werewolf was created out of a drunk evening out with the cavemen and a female wolf.” Stiles says sleepily, shifting his nose and that shouldn’t be adorable, he’s a seventeen year old boy not a rabbit, but for some reason it _is_ adorable. “Derek…I like you like this. Makes a change from the grumpy cat.”

 

Derek jerks, his eyes wide open and he wants to swear or throw something, he really does. He’s the way he is with Stiles- harsh, rude, downright angry- because _HE_ is just so frustrating. He’s torn between wanting Stiles to have a better life without him, and being annoyed about the fact that Stiles doesn’t even _realise_ how goddamned important and essential he is. And there’s the whole, _I’m in your pack, I’m a leader_ , then _no I can’t be, I’m human_ , like he doesn’t realise how much this all matters to Derek. How much he matters to Derek. He also did not call Derek back after their Kiss.  Yeah. So, sue Derek for being obnoxious to Stiles. It’s how he gets through his days without his anchor by his side.

 

“Shut up, Stiles,” he mutters. He feels rather than sees Stiles roll his eyes. “Did you just compare me to a grumpy cat? I thought I was sourwolf.”

 

“You are,” he mumbles, unconsciously burying his face deeper into Derek’s chest, absently scenting him, which is really far more distracting than it should be. “I want to sleep.”

 

“Then sleep,” he mutters, voice low and soft.

 

“I’m afraid to,” and the words drag up memories, for Derek, his and Stiles’- because he remembers. Remembers when Stiles would just stare awake at the ceiling because the house was too quiet without his father’s snores in it, and he was scared if he slept he would miss the call to come to the hospital, to say goodbye to his mom. He also remembers the first nights in New York, when he was afraid that Kate would find him, or the continuous nightmare that Stiles would die and Derek would have no idea.

 

He wants to promise that nothing will happen to him, but hello, they’re in a cell surrounded by Alpha freaking Werewolves. He can’t promise him anything except for,

“I’ll keep first watch.” Derek grunts, shifting Stiles slightly so he’s leaning entirely on Derek, warm and pliant in his hands. He makes an affirmative humming sound. “Besides, I’m sure your snore will keep them at bay.”

 

Stiles huffs something that sounds vaguely like “Sourwolves should shut the hell up right around now.”

 

Derek coughs a laugh and leans forward, against Stiles’ mostly shaved head, because it’s the only way he’s going to feel comfortable any time soon.  

 

*****

 

The next time the people come for them, they take Derek, which Derek’s stupidly glad about. They dig their claws into his arms, and there are seven of them, just to take him to his torture. He feels spoiled and when he tries to struggle, one of them uses their claws to cut into the skin at the back of his neck. He lets out a yell of pain. He hears Stiles yell for him, scream for him, and then the blow as it lands on him, though he’s wrenched away so fast that he can’t see what they’ve done.

 

He slams his elbow into the face of the ugly guy to his right as payback, but that’s nowhere near enough for him. He comforts himself with the thought that he’ll murder the leader of all this- the instigator- when he can. He suffers through claws embedded in his skin until the narrow corridor he’s in widens out into a warehouse, of sorts, walls made of corrugated iron and a concrete floor. He’s thrown onto said floor and grunts out as his chin snaps back, cracking something in his jaw. He’s rolled over onto his back and finds himself staring up at the leader of the pack. Or leaders, because there are two of them, though Derek’s not sure whether there are two of them or if he’s seeing double because he’s also seeing stars.

 

“The Derek Hale,” the taller of the two says, voice southern. It’s difficult to take someone- a male Alpha werewolf- seriously when they sound like a southern belle. He’s tanned to match the accent, with blonde-ish hair, and doesn’t look much older than Stiles.  

 

“I don’t believe I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting you,” Derek spits back, literally; flecks of blood land on the man’s leather jacket.

 

The smaller of the two rolls his eyes and stalks away, seemingly unbothered about Derek’s torture. At least until he returns holding a set of needles, each filled with cloudy, lilac liquid, the bag at arms length. He would bet his signed Dave Winfield rookie baseball card that they’re Wolfsbane, which means that he’s not going to get tortured. Physically.

 

Instead they’ll inject him with low doses of diluted Wolfsbane (which won’t poison him he doesn’t think) so he’ll hallucinate his worst fears and memories combined into one giant ball of suck, for hours on end. He remembers discussing it with his older brother, Stephen, when he was younger, and he’d been told that this was how to destroy a werewolf. _Pain is just a message_ , Stephen said, _something that you can grow numb to. But this isn’t something you can run away from; it will always be with you, it will never heal._

“Oh, you haven’t. This is Aiden, I’m Ethan,” the taller reveals with a glittering, predatory smile. “If you’ll excuse us we’ll be conducting some research into your pack, through your dreams and memories. Don’t take it personally.”

 

Derek’s forced into a concrete chair, moulded almost into a throne and strapped down, although it takes several werewolves to do so. Ethan watches placidly on, only moving forwards once he’s restrained with mountain ash infused bounds. He injects Derek with no hesitation, face held away from Derek’s frantic snapping.

 

Derek tries to fight the oncoming blackness, he does, but with only a minute amount of food in his system, he’s pitifully swift to pass out.

 

*****

 

He comes to in the front seat of an unfamiliar car, watching a couple have sex in the back of the car, one dark haired, the other with sandy blonde hair. He shifts, uncomfortable, until he notices who it is.

 

Then he actively wants to die.

 

“You like this, don’t you Stiles?” the voice almost croons to him. Stiles hums, voice cracking as he moans out loud, hips shifting, full. There isn’t an inch of space between them, hips rolling together in sync. Derek can’t see who the other guy is, which angers him because he doesn’t know who to kill.  “Do you want more?”

 

He punctuates the word more with a hard thrust, which makes Stiles shout out loud; pain and pleasure roll off him, in equal measures.

 

“Yes,” Stiles cries out, eyes clenched shut in ecstasy. His voice is slurred with drink, and dammit, it makes Derek furious. “More, god, please. Please.”

 

“I love it when you beg,” the voice growls back, dark. Derek wants to die. No, he wants to kill the person fucking Stiles, then he wants to die.

 

He begins to thrust into Stiles and he spreads his legs as far as they can go, in response, moans steady and getting louder. Stiles’ hands claw at the faceless man’s back, making him growl in response.

 

“What do you want from me, Stiles?”

 

“Harder,” Stiles says, biting his lips, almost soundless amid the sounds of bodies slamming together, skin sweaty. “Give it to me, harder. God.”

 

“Good,” the man croaks out, and as a reward, begins to jerk off Stiles. “Now shut up.”

 

Stiles stops moaning, though, biting his lips to keep the sounds in; slurred sounds break free.  

 

“Next time, I’m going to bend you over the car and fuck you so hard, you won’t breathe. I’ll rut up against your prostate  and you’ll see stars, I promise.”

 

Stiles shouts out as a thrust lands correctly, and comes all over them both.

 

The faceless man kisses him, fucking him all the while, and Stiles gasps, possibly in pain.

 

Derek closes his eyes to try and get away from the sight, but he can still hear them.

 

He can’t breathe.

 

*****

 

His eyes open in a burst of worry, and he’s surrounded by the Alphas, smirking down at him.

 

The lead one, Ethan, is smiling a full blown grin.

 

“You’re too easy to mess with. Just a mention of your little cell- mate and you’re basically putty in my hands. Not that I’m complaining, of course,” his smile is predatory. “It’s fun. I’m looking forward to messing with Stiles, too. Wouldn’t leave him out.”

 

Derek snarls and throws his body forward, but he feels the pinch of another needle in the crease of his elbow.

 

He’s swallowed by dizziness and he passes out with Stiles’ name on his lips.

 

*****

 

Derek’s standing on the edge of the Hale house property, staring up at the sky.

 

Nothing special, at first, just the blue of autumn, a bite in the air, a hint that winter is coming. Derek resigns himself to several _Game of Thrones_ texts of the same nature from Stiles.

 

But then- he smells it.

 

Fire. Choking his insides, making him want to twist away even from the scent, making him want to _run._ He looks in the horizon, over the treetops, and sure enough, the house is on fire.

 

He’s frozen, caught in apprehension, disbelieving because _no_. this cannot happen again. It just can’t.

 

He tears through the forest, weaving around trees, and it might as well be eight years ago. It might as well be, for all the help he is. For all the use he is.

 

And, all over again, it is his fault.

 

He got too arrogant about the new pack, flaunting off their wealth with the new house, where the old one stood. Proclaiming that there’s another pack in town, that they are strong enough to be a threat again. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t.

His feet won’t move, and he’s staring at the house; all the windows are shut tight, clogged with grey dust. He can smell that there is something wrong.

 

Then the windows explode outwards, a spray of burning glass, and the sound of roaring fire fills the air.

 

Over the top of that, rings the sound of his name being screamed; it’s Lydia, Erica, Boyd, Danny, Scott, Isaac, and over the top of them, Stiles, screaming at him to _help, to save them_. But Derek can’t do anything, he has to stand still and listen to the closest thing he has to a family burn and die, for a second time.

 

He feels like he dies with them, surrounded by the echoes of death; the old pack, and the new pack, combined.

 

*****

 

“Stop,” he gasps out, body shuddering with the force of his sobs, which are tearless, fangs slashing his lips to tatters. His hands are curled into fists, claws tearing through the flesh on his palms. “Enough.”

 

His back is pressed into the seat so hard, he’s surprised the concrete hasn’t shattered. He can feel bones shifting beneath his skin, and he’s unsure if they’re breaking or he’s trying to Change, to protect what can’t really be protected.

 

The light is painful to his eyes, but he can still make out the cold, grinning face of the Alpha. The other one isn’t there. Derek fears for Stiles and wants to laugh, but breathing is excruciating, let alone laughter; he’s being tortured and he’s worrying for Stiles. Clearly his love is _healthy_.

 

“No, I don’t think so,” the werewolf replies almost pleasantly. “Another one?”

 

*****

 

Stiles grits his teeth and shivers, body convulsing. The cut isn’t healing, it just isn’t.

 

His face is white as bone and Derek wants to take him in his arms, and for once, because it might be the last time, he does. Stiles shivers against him. Derek presses his lips to his head.

 

He’s not selfish enough to use this moment to tell Stiles about his feelings, but shudders when he hears Stiles gasp out:

 

“My dad…you’ve got to tell him something for me…”

 

Derek nods hurriedly. “Anything.” Blood begins to trickle down Stiles’ chin.

 

“I’m sorry,” the words are a whisper, then cut off with a gurgle as his eyes roll back in his head.

 

He hears the moment his heart stops beating, that beautifully familiar beat slowing until it’s soundless.

 

Derek chokes out a gasp, because this can’t be happening.

 

It just can’t.

 

That’s followed by a montage of images, all revolving around Stiles’ death, usually at Derek’s hand, when he could have stopped the bullet or done something, but doesn’t. Can’t. Just has to stand there and watch the blood flow- or the poison, in one instance, light purple liquid trickling down his chin- clutching his mate to his chest, listening to Stiles’ apology time and time again, until Derek just wants to kill himself. He stares down at Stiles’ face for a moment, every time, then he’s surrounded by Stiles’ dying body only a second later, another Stiles to cry over, to want to die over. Reasonably, he knows that this is all false- something about Stiles’ eyes just aren’t right- but they _could be real._ They feel like they are real, and that is why they make Derek want to die.  

 

*****

 

Derek can’t, won’t talk when he comes to. He can’t ask them to stop. He doesn’t know what that is. He’s stuck in this eddying pool of despair and death and misery. He can’t remember anything before this, just the image of Stiles, bloody, in his arms is a constant.

 

This time, the needle in his arm almost feels like a blessing. 

 

*****

 

He comes to back inside the cave, with Stiles’ healing arms wrapped around him. They smell better than they had yesterday, and Derek wants to lick at them. Totally for healing purposes.  

 

“Stiles,” he mutters. Stiles shifts, almost asleep, and his voice makes Derek just want to nuzzle and rub into the sleepy smell he’s emitting. That’s when he realises that this is real, he’s not still living in a world crafted by those Alpha bastards.

 

“You’re not hurt, then,” Stiles says, almost accusatory, but also not…it’s relieved. Like he could stand himself getting hurt, but really, Derek getting hurt isn’t something he wants…it makes Derek want to laugh because he distinctly remembers standing outside of the McCall family home, hunting down Lydia but not really, too caught up in Stiles’ conversation to fully commit to the idea, waiting for him to come out and talk to them; he’d heard Stiles ask Allison to shoot him in the head. And now here they stand, Stiles preferring to get injured, over Derek. Irony.

 

This irony is emphasised by the fact that Stiles has his nose buried in Derek’s hair, small breaths stirring the hairs there.

 

“Not physically,” Derek admits with a shiver, ears still ringing with the volume of the screams that still resound around his head…Stiles, his mom, Laura, his dad, Scott, Erica, Isaac, Boyd…he’d heard all of them scream, beg for death, beg for mercy at _his hands._ He’s still shuddering from the memories, the thoughts that he can’t even really think about now because he will break, he can feel it, hovering on the edges of his brain. “They made me see things. Bad things.”

 

Stiles, thank God, doesn’t ask for details, but his arms tighten around Derek. He sighs, satisfied at the touch, still shuddering minutely. Stiles talks to him about _Doctor Who_ and how Rose Tyler is the best companion to ever live or something, and his voice is warm and familiar, just in Derek’s ear.

 

He falls asleep in a matter of seconds.

 

The morning- or the next time Derek wakes up, at least- starts off with Stiles coaxing him to eat his half of a sandwich that Stiles says they’d thrown to him, after Derek had been taken out. It’s dry and bitter, but flavoured with hints of Stiles when he’d broken it in half, which makes it taste three hundred per cent better. He even licks away the taste from his hands.

 

After that, he falls silent. His brain is still catching up to current events, and he keeps shivering, moving subconsciously closer and closer to Stiles, until he’s basically in Derek’s lap. Stiles is silent too, thinking, and Derek wonders how messed up they’ll be after all of this is over. If they can get away from this one.

 

Derek’s not sure why, but they take Stiles again. This time, they don’t use a tranq dart. They use a taser gun, the spiking pain too familiar. He kills two of them, a woman and a male, fools who, arrogantly, got too close to his claws while he was writhing on the ground. They’re dragged out, and Derek is left alone in the cell, waiting, always waiting, for Stiles to be returned to him.

 

*****

 

He blacks out after that. He used to be stronger than this. What happened? He only comes to when Stiles is thrown into him, weight familiar enough, by now. Stiles is unconscious, blood smeared along his chin, but otherwise unharmed. Which means that the bastards must have tortured him like they had with Derek. He doesn’t understand why they can’t just kill him already, both of them. It almost seems like that would be too kind, for them. They want to see them suffer.

 

Derek takes Stiles into his arms, and talks. Tells him about Helen, of all people. How much he missed her. How much he wanted to see her grow up, see her develop from the good kid that she already was, into someone incredible; her savage insistence that comic books were more for girls than guys; her weird gift for playing Jenga, even though she was human, she would still beat all of them, even Peter. How much Derek wishes that Stiles could have met her, all of them, really, because they would have made his life a living hell and he would have loved every torturous minute of it.

 

He knows that the Alphas can hear him, hear everything he’s saying, but Stiles’ breaths are laboured, and Derek’s having difficulty remembering how long humans can last without food and water. Whatever time span that is, the combination of dehydration, lack of food and torture is proving to be a deadly combo.

 

He knows they don’t want to kill them, he knows this. Otherwise they would already be dead. They’re simply toying with them, like a cat does with a mouse. They just have to play along, which Derek has arguably been doing, but he can’t let his instincts go wild. His instincts want to maim and tear and spray blood. Not exactly productive to this ending- this hellish, twisted kidnap- with Stiles alive.

 

It’s just then, in the middle of the day, or night, he’s lost track of time, that he realises he is sweating, shaking with shudders that wrack his body.

 

It’s not warm, in the cell. There’s no heating.

 

But there is a full moon, out there, one that indicates they’ve been in here for three days. He can feel it under his skin, the need to Change.

 

Usually he can control his shift, but usually his mate- and anchor- isn’t fighting for his life surrounded by foreign entities.

 

Shit.

 

*****

 

Stiles is impressed that he managed to wake up at all. He’d expected death to take pity on him, but nope, he’s instead left in a small cell with an Alpha werewolf about to Change.

 

There aren’t enough expletives in the world to fully express how fucked he is.

 

Stiles blinks at Derek’s quivering form. He feels a brush of excitement- come on, he’s about to see Derek’s full Alpha form while sober, which means it won’t look like a fluffy cuddly bear just begging to hugged, the only image he has of Derek in his brain- but quickly realises how stupid that is. He’s still hurt, he’s man enough to admit that he wants to cry like a pre-pubescent girl whenever he breathes, and that would probably irritate Derek-wolf enough to attack him. He’s certain that Derek wouldn’t feel pity towards him if he cried; probably just maul him harder, with intent. Once more with feeling or something.

 

He scoffed at his fear, silently in the room full of groaning; Derek and he had grown closer (which was still unfathomable but literally one of the best things to ever happen to Stiles, not that he would ever say that to Derek’s already smug face)  so the wolf _shouldn’t_ , in theory, kill him.

_But Scott,_ his brain, stupidly realistic points out. _Shh,_ he told himself. _Just stop with all the practical reality._

“Derek?” He says, voice cracking from plain old fear (hey there, good old buddy) and exhaustion from talking too much over the past couple of days (Derek was never going to be able to tell him to shut up, he’d heard Derek’s pained mutter that he liked his voice, he was never going to live that one down, if they lived, that is).

 

“Run,” Derek grunts. Black hair seems to creep along his perfectly muscled back (Stiles was just observing).

 

“I’ll get right on that,” Stiles says, looking at the locked, lined with lead cell door. “Is there anything I can chop off? Maybe? Please?”

 

“Stiles,” Derek snarls out and Stiles stumbles backwards against the bench closes to the door, falling over it and slamming into the wall behind. His head makes a dulled _thump_  which makes him moan in pain, but stifles it with a fist when he sees Derek’s shiver contract, and wrack his body. Fur sprouts thickly, bones shifting, moving under his flawless skin, under the dark curls of his tattoo (Stiles is going into the police he has to be observant okay) until Stiles is staring at what appears to be a large giant husky dog and bear hybrid. Stiles can see that he’s dangerous, long claws, perfectly pointed, from his splayed position on the ground, but he looks less like a terrorising monster than something Stiles just wants to snuggle with.

 

“Derek?” he ventures, expecting a snarl, or worse, exclusion.

 

What he does not expect is that Derek comes and stares at Stiles, and licks along his jaw, a happy swipe of tongue, a firebrand of sensation. His wide, innocent eyes, tinted red, are staring into Stiles’, and he’s a giant fucking puppy, with shiny black fur and Stiles wants to give him dog treats as a reward for being so fucking cute. It’s blatantly obvious that it’s Derek, he’s more attractive as a wolf than most human beings for one thing but he just _feels_ like Derek. The presence that Stiles has gotten used to; warm, sharp, selfless and a little quiet, and it calms him instantly.

 

Still, Stiles jumps when Derek nibbles at the edge of his jaw and Derek makes an unhappy sound, nuzzling at his neck in response. Stiles carefully pats at the top of his head, within arms reach, and receives a purr in return, which totally does not turn his insides into water. Nope. No frigging possibility.

 

It does however tempt him into rubbing at the spot behind Derek’s ear, and is rewarded when his leg twitches towards the ground. The look Derek shoots him hints that he maybe wants to maul, but it’s softened by the colour of his eyes- the shade between hazel, green, grey and blue with the tinge of red around the irises that’s really too pretty to belong to a guy, let alone the already perfect Derek Hale, where is the justice in that-emphasised by the sheer, sleek midnight colour of his fur. Stiles laughs harder when Derek’s mouth drops open in a blatant wolf grin, foot twitching  faster, a happy whine emerging almost in ecstasy.

 

“Derek, I gotta say, I like you like this,” Stiles admits, certain in the belief that torturing Derek by tickling him while he can’t fight back will probably lead to some torture on the rack in hell, but it’s worth it. “Why can’t you be like this all the time, huh? Less sad. I hate seeing you sad. But you don’t talk like this, which is a bummer. I like it when you get all sassy and grumpy and also when you nerd out.”

 

Derek yelps resentfully, and butts Stiles’ chin with his nose, harder than he’d intended. Stiles slips down the wall, onto his side and hisses a breath of pain out. Derek whines in apology, and settles at his back. Stiles likes his warmth, because it numbs the pain, especially when tucks his head into Stiles’ waist, although he misses the lush sensation of having Derek’s lips there, from that one time, this summer before the Mrs McCall fiasco. He’d liked the affection behind the action.

 

He curls around Stiles, like it’s instinctive, and Stiles curves a hand behind his ear and scratches absently at the soft fur. It’s as soft as Stiles thought it would be. He doesn’t understand how they’ve gotten into this position- more than just the Alpha, how come Derek let him in- but he doesn’t want to try and think.

 

He just wants to sleep, and with Derek the blast furnace Hale at his back, it’s a likely possibility.

 

*****

 

Derek’s fully naked when he comes to, lying behind Stiles, and he allows himself to breathe in, fill his lungs with Stiles, the sensation of lying next to his mate. Then he realises he can hear voices, and not of the fun, insane variety, so he finds his sweat pants (which he’d thrown off, thankfully) and pulls them on, wincing at the rough material touching his morning wood. He can smell Stiles and it distracts him from the low voices he can hear outside the cell. He only has time to shake him awake before they come storming in.  

 

Derek hugs Stiles to his chest, instinctively, and Stiles is blasting out fear scents and hate scents, and Derek has not missed smelling those sour scents on him. Even Derek’s embrace can’t keep them together, and he can’t hold onto Stiles as hard as he wants to, because he will break them both with his strength.

 

So he lets the werewolves yank them to their feet and drag them along the thin corridor, single file, to the iron warehouse. A woman holds Stiles, claws threatening the unblemished surface of his skin, tight around his torso. Derek has Thor’s understudy behind him and he may be crushing his bones to be used at a later date. Either way, Derek can hear things clicking in his body.

 

Derek rolls his eyes when Ethan steps out of the shadows, distinctive without his brother and the strong arrogance he just emits. He looks like a frat boy gone wrong.

 

“Remember me?” Ethan smiles, all teeth. “I let my third in command, Matt, torture Stiles earlier so that we could all have this big get together at the right time.”

 

“It all just came screaming back,” Stiles says, voice mock pleasant. “You and your _great_ face.” His voice is dripping sarcasm that Derek can almost feel. Ethan slaps him for his comment. Derek snarls, but Ethan ignores it with a curling smile.

 

They’re not expecting Derek to be stupid enough to try to punch Ethan, but then again, they don’t exactly know Derek. And this son of a bitch just hit Stiles, so yeah, he’s not going to let him get away with that. So he rips away from Thor 2.0. and punches Ethan feebly (as hard as he can but he’s so _weak_ ) before he’s tied with something that feels like chicken wire. Owie doesn’t cover it.

 

“Aww, don’t be like that, Stilesy,” Ethan says with familiarity that makes him growl. The other werewolf turns to look at him suddenly, like he’s just remembered that he’s there. “You know you missed me.”

 

Derek’s missed something, and Ethan seems to realise this, turning back to look at him.

 

“You know those images that you saw? Of Stiles and a guy in the back of a car, fucking? Let’s just say, they were some fond memories of mine.” His face is pleased and Derek’s having a difficult time remembering how to breathe. Stiles is furious, his jaw so tight it has to hurt. He stays silent, skin still scarlet from Ethan’s last slap.

 

“So that’s both of you, really, isn’t it?” Ethan laughs, incongruous in this dank, miserable place. “You slept with that Argent bitch, according to my sources, Derek? Caused the fire that BBQ’d your family a few years back? Told her everything, probably. Whereas Stiles, now, he only told me a bit, after I spiked his drink. Awfully loyal to your bitches, Derek, that one is. Told me more after the first orgasm, though.” 

 

He’s careless, wiping his blood on his trousers. “But again, not enough. So I had to interrupt your big gay werewolf summer, Stiles, and do some research of my own. You’ve both been so very helpful, really, I know now that the Hale pack is barely together, waiting on an Alpha pair that will never _be_. No true leadership in that pack. I learned three things this summer. One? Stiles Stilinski is an easy lay once he’s had too much to drink. Two, that Beacon Hills werewolves are pathetic and three, all of you?” He pauses for emphasis. “Are _morons_.”

 

“Says the hillbilly,” Stiles mutters, which makes Ethan growl. He snatches Stiles by the scruff of his neck, holding him a few inches above the ground while Derek snarls.

 

He’s unsure whether the people know exactly how much he wants to rip them apart. Ethan tightens his grip on Stiles’ neck, claws a hairsbreadth away from digging into the pale, freckled skin. He gulps, prepared to offer him anything, when Ethan begins to laugh. Horrible, wracking laughs, and that’s when Derek knows he knows about the mate principle. Fuck.

 

“Now this is a kicker,” he grins, mouth bloodily stained from Derek’s earlier, weak punch. “Does he even know?”

 

Derek snarls.

 

“I’ll take that as a _no_.” Ethan holds Stiles closer to him, and licks his neck, a blatant attempt at scent marking. It drives Derek nuts, to say the least, this close after the full moon, and he growls furiously. “I think this may kill your mate, yet, Stiles.”

 

Ethan smiles, a bright curve, and sinks his teeth into the curve of Stiles’ neck, in a clear bite. Blood splashes out, messily, and Derek feels numb. Outwardly, he’s going nuts, snarling, roaring, slashing at the Alphas who hold him tightly. But Stiles is shuddering, face so betrayed, eyes narrowed at Ethan.

 

Blood spurts from his bite.

 

Ethan tosses him to Derek like a rag doll. Derek can’t catch him, he’s a little tied up at the moment, so he slams into the concrete and groans. Which is good. He’s groaning, and the blood pulsing from his neck is slowing down.

 

An Alpha grabs him and they’re both dragged back to the cell, although Stiles passes out on their journey there.

 

Derek can smell that the bite will take, he’d known it anyway, but this isn’t what Stiles wanted. He’d never mentioned the desire to become one of them, and now the choice has been taken out of his hands, and Derek knows that he will never forgive himself for being unable to do something (even though he can logically see that there was nothing he could do, he hates himself for not being able to do anything). 

 

Derek bends over Stiles, hands checking the bite mark as soon as they’re left alone, as soon as Ethan rips off the wire, making blood stream from his hands, shedding layers of skin. The bite’s healing almost instantly, which is really good, actually. Derek’s never seen a mark heal that quickly which is a sign, he thinks privately, that Stiles will make one hell of a werewolf.  

 

It’s in these few minutes of silence that Derek wonders why Ethan bit him. To drive Derek insane, that’s the obvious reason, he’s shaking with adrenaline and dark, dark jealousy. A bitter voice that wishes that he had been the one to change Stiles, because it should have been his teeth sinking, more gently, into that flesh. It would mean more, so much more, because there would be love behind the bite, caring and tender, nothing like Scott’s bite; full of rage and the desire for retribution, or Erica, Jackson, Isaac and Boyd, bitten to fill the pack. Stiles’ bite would have meant something, Stiles would have wanted it, wouldn’t have been forced on him by an insane Alpha.

 

No, Ethan bit him for a reason. Derek wishes that he knew what it was.

 

*****

 

Stiles is only out for a second, and suddenly his hazel eyes are flaring even more golden than they usually are, and he’s on the other side of the cell. But dammit, he’s _quick,_ quicker than Scott, even, with a careful grace and delicacy that Stiles just doesn’t have. Or didn’t have. Now, his face is familiar, and his scent- now werewolf!Stiles, is right. Feels as natural to Derek as his own scent.

 

What doesn’t feel right is that Stiles smells like a beta, face curved into a Beta’s mask, claws twitching. There’s just this sense of wrongness that even Derek can feel, like those eyes shouldn’t be that pale, they should be darker…more fiery. _More red,_ he thinks.

 

Not that Derek doesn’t love him any less, because it’s Stiles, whether he’s a werewolf, human or a frigging Pokemon, he will always be Stiles.

 

“ _Holy heart failure, batman,”_ Stiles grinds out, fangs in the way. And that’s when Derek knows that Stiles will be okay, even if he smells angry. He’s worried why Stiles smells as angry as Derek feels, although Derek’s anger is fading, slowly, replaced with affection and pleasure that he’s well, even if this has gone so terribly wrong.

 

“Why am I a werewolf?” He says, looking at his claws. Derek doesn’t have an answer. “What the fuck does he even stand to win by doing this to me? I’m not supposed to be a werewolf,” Stiles laughs but there’s no humour in it, the sound deeper than usual due to the fangs. “I’m supposed to be human, for my _dad._ I promised…”

 

“I’m so sorry,” Derek breathes out, almost silent because it’s really tempting to go over to Stiles and kiss him when he smells like he should (almost) like he could actually be Derek’s mate, now that he’s a wolf. There’s no fear -apart from on his more rational side which will always treat Stiles like a delicate vase- that he will hurt Stiles, like he’s been so afraid of for years.

 

 “Why are you sorry? I told Ethan stuff, I’m not even sure how much,” Stiles says, voice full of shame and self-disgust. Derek hates that tone, because Stiles made a mistake- yes- but he made the same mistake, and he wasn’t even drugged to make that mistake. Stiles was fooled and he’s _hurting_ because of it and Derek can’t stand this fact.

 

“You smell…” Stiles coughs out between the fangs, but swallows, and suddenly they’re gone. He’s mastering the basics already, Jesus. Talk about natural ability.  “Like sweet, I guess? Not like you. I know what you smell like.” And he can already scent emotions. Of course he can. Because the universe hates Derek.

 

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Derek says, voice uncertain. He can hear the lie in his own words. Stiles jumps on this uncertainty.

 

“I could have guessed that was a lie even when I was human,” Stiles scoffs, head tilted as he surveys Derek. He suddenly releases a flare of arousal, which sparks off Derek’s own senses. Stiles straightens up immediately, mouth a tight line of fury that sets alarm bells off in Derek’s head.

“Derek, what was he talking about?” Stiles demands abruptly, as though the memory of the last conversation is just coming back to him. He’s already accepted he’s a wolf, that’s how self-aware he is.  Derek’s standing on the other side of the cell, but even he can see the fury in his expression. His hands curl into claws and Derek wants to swallow his misery. “Mates. I don’t- I don’t understand.”

 

There’s a lie in his voice, but only small. Derek guesses that he knows what he means about mates, but wants to hear it from Derek. Derek doesn’t know what to tell him, but decides to go for the truth. Mostly.

 

“It refers to a pair of wolves, or human and a wolf, who are paired,” Derek whispers, and instantly regrets it. Stiles goes white, visibly shaking, and he’s not pleased, far from it. He looks like he’s just seen his Jeep get hit by a train. “Or partnered.”

 

“And we’re- it?” Stiles says, gesturing between the two of them, like their relationship, infinitely complex and confusing and brilliant is lying before them. Derek’s scared that he’s going to shatter whatever they have into pieces with his words. Derek nods, quick and small. Stiles swears and stumbles, going to sit on a bench, but mistiming and falling on his ass. Derek darts forward to help him, and Stiles gestures at him to stay away.

 

His heartbeat is so loud, like a rabbit’s, like he’s staring into the eyes of death.

 

His face is incredulous. “Why? I mean, I don’t get it, when and how and _holy fuck_ -”

 

Derek cuts over him, because every word feels like a harsh barb in his gut. He’s so afraid. “Since we were young.”

 

“Looney tunes young, or Hale fire young?” Stiles asks, blinking. He still looks like he’s going to barf.

 

“The latter,” Derek responds, voice hard. “I saw you and I just knew.”

 

“At the police station?” Stiles says abruptly, and Derek knew that he hadn’t forgotten.

 

“Yeah,” he says, voice uncertain. “I just always felt you, like what you were feeling, sometimes, I could feel you in town. I could always smell you, even when I was in New York. No, I don’t know how. I wanted to be around you constantly. It was…difficult.” Understatement of the year.

 

“So, what? You couldn’t tell me?” The anger’s back in his voice. “How could you know and not tell me? Let me in on the loop in my own life, or something.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know Stiles, maybe because you wanted me dead and hated me actively until you decided that one day you didn’t,” Derek responds, voice guttural and hard.

Stiles shakes his head, mouth in an unpleasant grimace.

 

“I can’t fucking believe you,” Stiles bites out. “Which part of saving your ass time and time again made you think that I _really_ hated you?”  

 

“The fact that you said you wanted me dead on multiple occasions.” Derek points out, arms crossed.

 

“Did you ever think that’s how I dealt with you?” Stiles says, face devastatingly pained. “This stupid thing I felt towards you? You, of all fucking people, Derek Hale, son of a Greek fucking god, jackass extraordinaire? Jesus, how else was I supposed to deal with having a crush on a werewolf? Better yet, a _male_ werewolf? There was a large part of this year in which your name caused me actual pain, for God’s sake. You basically were my sexual identity crisis.”

 

Derek sucks his breath in desperate for oxygen, because hearing this and smelling it are two very, very different things. Stiles wanted him, all this time. Still wants him, maybe.

 

“Then when Lydia shot me down and I had sex with fucking Ethan, of all people, because I was a moron and I didn’t want to feel scared and alone and sad anymore even though afterwards, I felt like shit. But that day at my house, that changed everything because right then and there that I knew that I wanted you and your stupid face and even more stupid personality. Just you. When you helped me out and told me things and almost brained me in the shower? I realised that you had about as much as I did, like it hit me. I thought that I could try to have something with you, that you could push me away and I would actually know that you didn’t feel something towards me that all those times you were staring at me weren’t really what I wanted them to be?” Stiles spits out, voice tight, vein throbbing in his forehead. He’s clearly agitated. “But then I helped you, and you _let me_. You even wanted me there and you didn’t get sick of me and still wanted to talk to me, day after day, and you lived with me, and we kissed, and I fell for you, for God’s sake. I fell in love with your everything.” Derek is speechless.

 

“But you only let me do that because I was your mate?” Stiles says, and Derek wants to know when things went so wrong. “Because you have to love me, no other reason. That’s why you tolerated me, this year, this summer, why you didn’t tell me. Because I’m just some object that’s _yours_ , right?”

 

“ _No_ ,” Derek gasps out, because Stiles is so wrong. He would choose Stiles, even if he wasn’t made, biologically, to love him. He still would choose this stupid, beautiful boy, wouldn’t consider anyone else, how could he?  “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to hurt you-for us to hurt each other- I wanted to stay away- give you a choice to choose someone better, maybe-”

 

“Excellent job with that one, truly,” Stiles snaps back, sarcasm almost palpable. “Not even giving me a chance to prove to you that I wouldn’t hurt you, you wouldn’t hurt me, by staying away. Also, then what was with the hitting me into doors, smacking my head into wheels, yanking me forwards and having your little betas hit me with car parts? Making me fall in love with you and your stupid Pack? What was that exactly?” Stiles yells, gesturing, voice going occasionally hoarse where he’s hurt.

 

“An expression of sexual frustration?” Derek says, hoping that humour will get him out of this one.

 

It doesn’t work, although the corner of Stiles’ mouth lifts up in a brief smirk. “No, Derek. No you don’t get to get out of this by being a funny douche. Nope. Trust me, I know.”

 

“What do you want me to do?” And here’s the intrinsic part of Derek that just wants to give Stiles everything, anything he wants, when he can because he _needs_ to have Stiles happy and satisfied.

 

“Just leave me alone and let me think.” Stiles snaps, drawing away.

 

*****

 

Either the werewolves got tired of them, or they’ve deduced from their last chat that they weren’t going to get anywhere; so that’s why they take Stiles, and don’t bring him back. Derek fights them and Stiles tells him to stop, tiredly, like he doesn’t even care if he dies. He just sounds weary, like even death would be preferable to being Derek’s mate. He hears door open and terse words are spoken, Stiles’ hitching breaths in response, but he’s pulled away before the next words are spoken. They’re going to dump Stiles back at the Hale house and kill Derek. The pack will come for Derek but he’ll already be dead by then. They’ll kill the rest of the pack and take over Beacon Hills. He’s left alone in the cell. He realises he should feel scared right around now, but he’s too busy feeling relieved.

 

*****

 

Stiles feels strong, still high from the Change, when he’s dropped off at the Hale house. Of course they punch him, like the hospitable wolves they are, before they drop him off, which means that he wakes up under the watchful eye of the entire Hale pack. More people to see as Stiles wolfs out, yelling for Derek. Damn human emotions. He feels like his skin is crawling without the Alphas scent, even though he’s miles away. He aches with the distance from Derek, and it is killing him that he left Derek behind, didn’t even struggle as they took him away, he was so tired of fighting. He feels like he betrayed Derek, and he realises that he’s going to get killed and that leads to a panic attack.

 

It takes his inhaler to stop the panic attack, and that’s only because he can taste Derek on it. He’s questioning his life choices. The entire pack watches him with wide eyes, even Erica, and he feels blessed that Lydia has forgotten that she was supposed to be painting her nails in favour of staring at him warily.

 

“Are you okay?” Scott asks tentatively, in that genuinely nice way he has. Stiles wants to hit him, but this is nothing new.

 

“Just fine Scott, managed to lose my humanity and sanity in the space of three days, it was a fun experience. I’ll have to make it a yearly experience. Where were you?” Stiles says, growlier than he intended because the fangs have come out to play. Yay.

 

“We searched for you,” Isaac says, and it’s nice to hear his voice. “All over town. We told your dad that you and Derek went to a Werewolf Conference. Lydia made fliers.”

 

Stiles gives Lydia a look to say, _in what universe did you actually think that would be able to convince my dad_ to which she rolls her eyes. He takes this to mean that she was outvoted and in all likelihood, Stiles bets that it was Scott’s idea.

 

“We need to get back to the warehouse,” Stiles snaps abruptly, sitting bolt upright, ignoring the ache in his stomach. He’s been starving for a couple of days, he can wait a few hours more. He won’t sit here and eat while Derek can’t, while Derek may be dying, and he’s suddenly by the front door with his baseball bat in his hands, although he’s not sure how he managed to run all the way upstairs and back in a matter of seconds, and he flinches away from the wire sticking messily out of the bat. The shape of it feels natural in his hand, an extension of himself, which is all comfortingly familiar, so he ignores the weirdness of this entire situation.

 

Difficult to ignore the claws that tip his fingers, but even they feel right- like this is something that was meant to happen, he was meant to Change, because he feels strong and in control. He’s never felt stronger, in all honesty, all wounds healed from before, stinging burns shining over with new skin. He doesn’t- can’t- think about this entire situation, everything that’s happened, he’ll have to schedule that break down later. Right now, all he can focus on is Derek- like usual- but now he can feel him. Feel his fear, the shape of him, his whereabouts generally (Jesus, Derek’s such a creeper for keeping this from him) and it makes him desperate and determined in equal measures.

 

“How are we supposed to get there? We don’t even know where there is,” Danny points out, which makes Stiles smirk.

 

“I memorised the route on the way here,” Stiles says hurriedly, beckoning for the pack to follow. “They blindfolded me but the town’s on a grid system- it took us under ten minutes to get here. Logically, they’re in the warehouse district, probably the smallest one; after all, they don’t need much space exactly, do they? Just enough to keep Derek and me. Guessing they’re arrogant enough not to have weapons.” So he’s not telling them about the mate thing anytime soon, because that’s Derek’s job- he’s the Alpha. What he said was true though, so the others can’t smell a lie. Just smell the hints of his upcoming breakdown or revelation.

 

Erica strides to him first, eyes ferocious and proud, and he comes to the conclusion that he is glad that he has a bro in Erica. Scott’s right behind her, with Isaac. Boyd follows, cracking the muscles in his back, while Lydia mutters something about getting the Camaro and the Honda. Danny nods in agreement, pointing towards the garage.

 

Stiles grins, all teeth, because the Alpha Pack have no idea what they’ve just started.

 

*****

 

Derek doesn’t know how much time passes, but he almost feels ready for his death when he’s dragged out of the cell by Ethan. Because of malnutrition, he’s weaker than he should be, and can’t even fight back when he’s tossed onto the ground in the warehouse. Before he realises anything, a knife is plunged in, and it’s a sword really, long enough to slice him in half; it stays in his gut for a minute, though.  

 

Derek chokes back a plea; he’s going to die anyway. Ethan smirks at him, before forcing the knife in another few inches. His blood pools around him, clogging the air with the stale scent of rust, tinged with the most miniscule amount of Stiles; it’s a testament to how much the kid’s changed him, really, even below the skin he’s changed. The smell comforts him vaguely before he slumps against the entrance to yet another false exit. One of many, but all blocked off- at least to him.

 

Ethan reveals that Derek’s a loose end, he needs to get rid of him, that it will lower the morale of his pack when they feel his death and make them easy pickings for his pack. He does sound like a hillbilly, Derek decides even as he can feel himself fading.

 

It’s mostly due to sheer dumb luck that Stiles appears when he does.

 

Derek recognises his scent first- he’d know that ridiculously good, heady scent anywhere- but he waits a second, because this is the son of a bitch who tortured Stiles. He wants his death to be prolonged and so painful that he howls for mercy- or in apology, Derek’s open to either idea, he’s not fussy- before Derek tears him in half with his claws.

 

It’s pretty funny in the end, how it works out, because this Wolverine wannabe begins his rant anew.

 

“I still can’t get over the fact that a _Hale,_ Jesus Christ, a _Hale,_ decided to claim his mate. Were you not taught as a kid? Well, awkward, I guess not, seeing as they burned to a nice crisp right around then. Still you must know how weak mates make you, especially when they’re frigging human and helpless. Not that I blame you exactly, I saw his mouth, actually, I fucked his mouth-”

 

Derek interrupts, anger white hot in his chest. “That wouldn’t be the word I’d choose,” he grunts out, around the knife.

 

“Oh,” the guy grins humourlessly, face speckled ghoulishly with his blood. “Which word is it that you object to, then?”

 

“Helpless?” At this Derek steps aside and Stiles steps forward, hefting an impressive baseball bat; barbed wire, soaked in Wolfsbane, gouged into the wood; the scents bleed together to make Derek’s nose burn. If his nose is sent into a riot just because of the smell, he shudders at what it would feel like against his skin. 

 

“I play baseball,” Stiles says brightly. “That’s why you should be scared, you asshole.” He swings the bat with a frightening amount of accuracy; the bat slams into the alpha’s skull, the hated metal biting into his skin. Derek just watches, stupidly still, as Stiles uses all his new strength to eviscerate this asshole.

 

“Stiles came back for me,” he mutters, stupidly pleased. Stiles came back for him, and dammit, that means a lot. Derek didn’t think he would, after what he’d said.

 

“Of course I did,” Stiles grunts back, twisting the spikes of the bat into the flesh of Ethan’s back, blood running in rivulets.

 

This is when it actually hits him, as Stiles makes werewolf mince out of the Alpha, without any assistance whatsoever; he uses the bat to determine his movements, allows it to propel him forwards, backwards, light as a bird on his feet. No one movement is the same, and Derek relishes in the fact that _this_ was what he wanted to teach Isaac, but what he couldn’t fully express what he wanted. His movements are without any pattern, no predictability, and it’s pretty terrifying to watch. He feels a swell of pride.

 

A mate is the equal to their Alpha, and he knew that mentally Stiles was, but not physically. Not yet anyway, he’d thought. At the sight of this final marker, his chest rumbles with what could theoretically qualify as a purr, but only if you were being really, really cruel.

 

Derek steps forward as Stiles has beaten the Alpha to the ground, and tosses the bat away. It rolls towards Derek and he flinches instinctively away from it.

 

The movement jars the knife still in his gut, so he takes a second and pulls it out.

 

Maybe that moment, that moment when Derek didn’t have his eyes on Stiles, is why he doesn’t notice it happen.

 

Derek doesn’t know.

 

All he knows is the sound of claws slashing through flesh, sinew, bone, as clean a cut as scissors cutting through paper, fills the air.

 

He freezes and brings his gaze back to Stiles.

 

“Stiles?” He asks, when the crimson blood is soaking his sneakers, splattered on them both. Stiles is standing very still, back to Derek, hands curling and uncurling into fists. His claws are extended, twitching, something Derek still isn’t used to.

 

He repeats his name.

 

This time, Stiles turns around, blinking ruby red eyes at him, Derek begins to lose his shit. Silently.

 

With those _scarlet_ eyes boring into him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THIS IS LATE RESITS AND EXAMS AND I'M PATHETIC YEAH BUT I HOPE YOU LIKE IT AND I LOVE YOU FOR READING THIS. ALSO IT'S A LITTLE LONGER THAN USUAL IN APOLOGY<3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has to deal with becoming the new Alpha in town, but he and Derek have to try and heal from the Alpha pack's activities, plus Stiles has to resist the temptation of getting into Derek's pants. Junior year gets off to a great start.

So, the inspiration for Stiles' wolf is [here](http://belieber.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/animal-little-puppy-gif-growling.gif)  


Because I feel that Stiles is precious and vicious, in equal amounts. He's a bad wolf (pun intended). 

* * *

 

Stiles smiles at Derek, small and genuine, and it’s a smile that Derek will etch into his mind. Then Stiles’ legs give out on him and he falls to the ground. Derek doesn’t remember moving, but suddenly Stiles is in his arms on the ground, Derek propping him up while his head lolls back on Derek’s shoulder. Stiles is gasping for breath, eyes flaring a rich ruby red, fangs extending over his lips.

“My dad,” Stiles says, voice quiet as a murmur, and _no_ , this is all too familiar. Derek seizes up, clutches at Stiles all over, checking that he’s okay, safe and whole. He’s unhurt but his heart is beating so fast.

“Stiles!” John Stilinski bellows, and he’s sprinting to where the pair lay on the ground. Stiles grins up at Derek and says his name almost in wonder, before he passes out.

His head falls back against Derek and he’s reminded of that time when he was paralysed in the police station, suddenly. He stands up with Stiles in his arms, holding him tight to his chest and John Stilinski yells at his son.

“He just killed an Alpha,” Derek says sharply, voice basically a growl due to the protruding fangs. “We need to get him home, back in his territory, or he’ll wake up disoriented.”

The sheriff narrows his eyes, but nods and helps Derek out of the maze and into broad daylight. He can smell his pack, smell their relief, but he acts selfishly. He focuses on the mate in his arms and snarls at anyone else who comes near, until he climbs into the back of the Sheriff’s car with Stiles still in his arms, stretched across the back seat. This is playing into one of his fantasies right now, but it had Stiles conscious in it and his dad wasn’t here, oh God he can’t get a boner now and they were wearing less layers. The engine roars, deafeningly loud in Derek’s ears, but he’s pleased when they make it to the Stilinski house in six and a half minutes.  

Derek knows the Stilinski household like he knows the back of Stiles’ hand. He’s slept in it on multiple occasions, over this summer, had showers in it, seen _Stiles_ in the shower, cooked on the stove and he’d fixed the back porch. But walking in the front door, with Stiles in his arms, he feels like he’s seeing this place for the first time. The walls are warm and the light streams happily through the windows, the couches lighting the sitting room like embers in a fire. It looks so very good, like heaven, even, after days of a grey cell. It’s beautiful.

He feels almost serene (ignoring the weakness in his body from lack of food) when he dumps Stiles on the couch; Stiles is out cold, but sleeping now, so Derek tries to get himself to relax, and fails. His body is stiff with nerves, tension crackling at the tips of his fingers. Stiles makes a whining sound in his sleep, clearly distressed, like maybe he can sense Derek’s upset, so Derek pushes back a stray lock of hair to soothe both of them. Stiles twitches his nose at the touch but his face eases as he falls back into a deeper sleep.

Derek watches him sleep for a minute or two before Mr Stilinski coughs uncomfortably.

“While I’m fine with you watching my son while he sleeps, I think you and me need to talk. And eat.” He talks over his shoulder as he puts food into the oven, pulling out water and an aspirin after for Derek.

Derek sips the water carefully, swallowing the aspirin, although he’s about fifty per cent certain that it won’t work on the impressively large tension headache he’s harbouring. Mr Stilinski watches him warily, but he doesn’t smell like he distrusts Derek, or there’s any fear. He’s just- careful. Pensive. Derek’s too tired to have this conversation, whatever it might be; he just wants to crawl into the nearest bed. Or shove Stiles over on the couch and climb in next to him, or climb on top of him to keep him _there_. Probably not the best idea when his dad has a gun and is totally unaware of Derek’s feelings.

“Alright, Derek, here’s the thing; my son called me and asked for my help fighting a bunch of people who’d hurt you both. My son rang the Argents too and had all of us kill about ten Alpha werewolves. There were thirty of us. He did it because he said they had you. Now, can you explain to me what the hell is going on with my son, right now? Because I sure as hell have no idea what’s going on, and I’m sick of it.” John says, voice tight and angry by the end. Derek flinches, but the anger’s not directed at him. John sees his flinch and sighs, face softening. “Look, son, I’m not angry at you- frankly, I’m grateful- but I’m angry at the situation, at whatever Stiles got caught up in. Not that I’m surprised exactly.”

“How much has Stiles told you about everything?” Derek sighs, rubbing his temples. He needs Stiles.

“He told me about the werewolf thing, about Scott, and I saw some demonstrations earlier, but I don’t know how he got caught up in it and why they wanted to kill the both of you and I don’t know what’s going on with him right now,” John says, pulling the food out the oven, curly fries and soy burgers. Derek raises an eyebrow. “I work in law and order. My son can’t hide much from me.”

He sets a place down in front of Derek and Derek uses the food as a distraction to think.

“Stiles got caught up in it last year, around this sort of time, when my uncle, the Alpha- Peter Hale- turned Scott into a werewolf. Against his will. He helped Scott adapt to this, and he helped me find the Alpha and kill him, last winter. Then we had Jackson’s issues to deal with, because I bit him- he was supposed to turn into one of us- and that kid, Matt, was controlling him.”

“At the same time, I was trying to build my pack, so that’s Erica, Isaac, Boyd, Scott, Lydia, Danny and your son, now. Gerard Argent killed Matt, then assumed control of the Jackson. Threatened people with Jackson then got Jackson to kill himself. Kidnapped Stiles and Erica and Boyd, then tortured all three, trying to get them to give up information, and just to get through the message that no one was safe from him.” Derek’s throat closes up, and he swallows at the lump in his throat. He can do this. He can. Stiles’ father deserves an explanation, and dammit, Derek’s going to give him one. “Then we managed to kill Gerard, Jackson turned into a werewolf and left at the start of the summer. After that, Stiles’ car broke down, I helped him out and in return he made a treaty with the Argents and we started to rebuild our house.”

“How much did you help him out?”

“I fixed his car. Kinda. And paid for it to be fully fixed, at the mechanic’s store in town.” Derek admits.

“That sounds like Stiles,” his father breathes out, running a hand through his hair that’s so much a Stiles motion that Derek actually aches. “How did the Alphas come into this?”

“They’d been keeping tabs on Peter after his killing spree last year. So they watched him do that, then when I took on the role, they thought I was weak. That they could take Beacon Hills from Hale control.” Derek says, voice tight with anger.

“So they took you and my son? The Alpha and human of the pack? But why did they take Stiles and how the hell did he end up all furry?”

He’s sharp, Derek will give him that. “They took him to get to the Pack, I think. Stiles is a message, same as last year. They wanted me dead so they took me too. The leader bit Stiles.” He only growls a little when he says the words, and Derek knows that he will never be happy saying those words. “Stiles killed him, just before you turned up.”

“So my son is a…” John is reeling, face drained of all colour.

 “He’s an Alpha werewolf because he killed the werewolf that was about to kill me, the leader of the Alpha pack. He saved my life, Sheriff. He’s going to have a difficult time, because he’s not born and he was a beta for a few hours before being changed, but here’s the thing; he didn’t smell right, as a beta.” Derek’s hesitant in his words, but his voice is betraying him to his feelings, dammit. “He adapted swiftly to that, and he was strong, even then. He’s going to be amazing, I can tell, but he’s going to need to learn to control his temper. If it’s alright with you, I’ll be around. I don’t know how he’ll react to me, exactly, or the pack. It’ll be one of either two situations; the pack will adopt him as their leader, like me, the pair of us. The alpha pair. Or they will reject him and we’ll have to split the territory. Which I really, really do not want to do, really. Really. At all.”

Derek knows that as long as Stiles accepts him as his mate, then the first scenario will play out. And if he thinks back, Stiles loved- loves- him and he hadn’t left him to the Alphas, even though he would have been safer doing so. But Derek’s scared to assume things like this, because he’s not lucky. He can’t even imagine something as wonderful as that happening, although he wants to believe that it can happen. He wants to.

But he’s practical.

“So let me clarify,” the Sheriff says, jaw tight. “My son isn’t human, anymore. He’s a wolf. Who has a pack and is one of a pair and changes into a wolf every full moon?”

Derek nods warily. The Sheriff frowns but nods in understanding, posture easing.

Derek hears Stiles stir in the sitting room, and he’s by his side before he consciously decided to get up.

“Derek?” Stiles groans out, eyes flooding with scarlet, like blood, eyes so very warm and rich. Derek feels safe, comfortable, because everything is how it should be. How it was meant to be. Stiles suits this, more than seems fair.

“I’m here,” he says, not like Stiles couldn’t sense his presence or smell him. His words are for reassurance.

“I’m okay,” Stiles breathes out, mouth quirking into the biggest grin Derek’s ever seen on him. “I don’t want to maim you. Yay! Although I’m kinda craving food.”

“Your dad made food-”

“Dad I can smell that you found the curly fries,” Stiles calls and the Sheriff curses. Stiles laughs and sighs, contented at the ceiling. “Diet starts again tomorrow.”

“Are you okay?” Derek asks- a little freaked out-because _he is calm_. Stiles’ heart rate is even, and while the red has bled into his eyes, it’s more in joy than anything else. He is happy. His claws are nowhere to be seen and his forehead is creamy, unblemished, still human. He’s managing to show the eyes without anything else. That took Derek weeks to figure out, how to do the eyes without the voice and claws. Jesus. Stiles is actually good at everything and knows everything. Where is the justice?

“I think so,” he says, frowning as he does an internal check. “I feel weird, sorta strong, but I still feel like me. I kinda want to go and gnaw on a bambi, but I’ve always liked venison. Don’t tell Isaac.”

Derek wants to smile, but he’s so afraid. He can’t afford for Stiles to be around the pack and suddenly kill them all; not that he would, but Derek just can’t know how much of Ethan had been in the bite. What if what happened with Lydia will happen with Stiles? The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind, but he feels his throat tighten in anxiety.

“Are you okay?” Stiles says, voice tentative. “I can smell- Jesus, this is taking stalking to a _whole_ new level- that you’re freaking out.”

“No,” Derek says honestly, sitting on the couch next to Stiles. Stiles eyes him warily, forehead furrowed. “It’s just catching up to me. Everything that happened.”

“I’m sure you heard that I had a panic attack when I woke up without you,” Stiles says, voice embarrassed. “It seems we’ve reached Winchester levels of co-dependency. But without the incest.”

Derek nods because he can’t imagine walking away from Stiles, right about now.

“We need time, after what’s just happened. We were both tortured for hours and shoved together into a ten by four cell and I was Changed into a werewolf by a guy that essentially drugged me.” Stiles says, eyes tormented as he relives the memory. His face is anguished as it looks at Derek, and it breaks Derek, a little.

“We need to figure things out before we…” Stiles gestures between the pair of them, abruptly grinning ruefully. “I seriously want you, you have _no idea_ , but…”

“Standing right here, Stiles,” the Sheriff says uncomfortably, and Stiles flushes even redder than he had been.

“Dad.” He hides his face in his hands while Derek fights back a smirk. “How long am I grounded?”

“We need to talk,” John says, smiling, but it’s a smug grin. He’s totally messing with Stiles. “Derek, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, stepping away from Stiles. He stands for a minute stupidly still before he gets the idea. John wants him to leave Stiles, but he won’t go until Stiles asks him to, and even then he’s not certain he could. His feet are probably cemented to the ground

“I think you should go and, uh, shower and see the pack,” Stiles says, frowning at his hands. Derek can scent his displeasure.

“I’ll see you soon,” Derek says to Stiles, and leaves.

 

The run home clears his head, a little, however he feels all but dead on his feet when he reaches the Hale house. The house is finished, and it’s beautiful, Derek can appreciate from the safe distance but right now all it reminds him of is the hallucination where the house blew up. He just wants to get inside, take a shower and fall into bed. He’ll text a couple of his betas to make sure they’re still alive, but he can sense that they’re warm and contented, probably with their other halves.

He wishes that he could be that lucky.

So he makes himself grilled cheese, and eats it, staring around at the stainless steel worktops that wink at him, the pristine white walls, the leather stools set around the island and the spider burner oven. Roman shutters cover the large window, but he can see the forest beyond. The shelves are stacked with food, and Derek can tell that none of the pack has been eating for the past few days; there’s an unopened pack of Poptarts, for one thing, and they’re all total animals when it comes to those bad boys. The fridge is huge and it has an ice dispenser which Derek thinks is secretly cool. Pun unintended.

A photo of Derek and Stiles is on the fridge, and they’re watching something on the TV; Derek’s frowning while Stiles is snorting with laughter and yet still managing to look beautiful. The injustice of it all. They’re surrounded by the pack, and Derek can’t remember them mock fanning at themselves, over the pair of them, but they’re doing it in the picture very obviously for the photographer; Isaac’s the only one not in the photo, so he’d guess that he’s the one to blame. Scott’s laughing.

Derek wants to know where they got the damn photograph and whether he can get it framed.

His room- or his suite- should he say, is all khaki walls, and large, queen sized bed, shutters letting in a few lazy streaks of sunlight that dance across the hardwood floor. The bed looks soft and inviting with black sheets and he has to pull away from the idea of climbing into bed, because he’s covered in a lot of flaking blood, and not all of it’s his.

He has a shower and spends what feels like hours scrubbing away layers of his skin, hot water sluicing over his body. He feels warm but hollow when he climbs into bed, the covers reaching his chin.

He knows he won’t get any sleep.

 

Somehow, he does fall asleep, and wakes up to the sound of his cell phone; he can’t remember, but he’d plugged it into the wall next to his bed, and the sound of it vibrating against the mahogany nightstand is giving him a headache. He actually feels more tired now with god knows how many hours of sleep under his belt. He notes Stiles’ number with sleepy eyes, but is abruptly awake and afraid.

“Stiles?” He picks up, voice breathless and vulnerable to his own ears.

“That’s how you answer your phone?” the Sheriff says, voice disdainful. He’s suddenly struck by the similarities between Stiles’ dad and Peter.

“Usually, yeah,” he says, wincing, rubbing a hand over his face.  

“You need help. Listen, Hale, Stiles needs you.”

Derek’s immediately aware. He’s scrambling for his car keys. “Where is he?”

“Calm down, he’s fine, he’s at home, sitting in his room. He’s fine. Kind of.”

“What is it, then?” Derek asks, grumpy.

“He’s not _okay_ ,” the Sheriff says gruffly. “But I’ve got a shift and three of my deputies are still out and he hates people seeing him ill, but you’re not exactly people, are you?”

Derek swallows. “I’m a werewolf?”

“You’re as dumb as he is,” the Sheriff says. “I’m leaving at seven. Be here by then. And bring food, he’s not eating.”

“Curly fries?”

“Had a handful then left them.”

“Shit. I’ll make something.” 

He spends a minute in the shower, and even less time getting dressed, deciding on a Henley, because he can smell that Stiles likes him in those. He hunts in the kitchen for edible food to take to Stiles. He’s got an hour so he makes his mom’s chicken stew and finds white choc chip cookies on the shelves that he knows will make Stiles feel even slightly better.

*****

Derek’s feeling oddly nervous when he arrives at the Stilinski house. Gone are the days when he could climb through the window. Nope, as soon as the Camaro arrives in the driveway, Mr Stilinski is standing in the door way, crossed arms and the Stilinski glare barring his entrance.

“Now, I want my son to see you, because I actually think it will make him better, but we’re going to have to lay down some ground rules,” he says, face acutely uncomfortable, and Derek’s stomach plummets to the basement. “One. No sex while I’m in the house. Never, ever, to quote that stupid song Stiles always sings. Two. You will always be safe. I don’t care if it’s embarrassing to drive to the drug-store and get condoms, one of you will do it. No exceptions. Three. I never hear anything about your activities. Ever. Never. Not even a joke. I do not want to know about my son’s sex life. Four, you do not hurt him. I like you enough, Hale, but frankly you’re not what I’d choose for my son, you’re too old and you have a lot of issues that I don’t really want to touch with a pole. So I have no real problem with killing you, if I had to. Not that I want to, because I can talk football with you. Five, he doesn’t stay at your house on school nights. No exceptions. But on the weekends, he can stay if you follow through on these rules. ” He gives Derek a brief smile to soften his words. “Six. Take care of each other.”

He nods, finished, and walks towards the cruiser. “Also, Stiles pointed out that his mom would have liked you, so that endears me to you. A little.”

Derek blinks and wonders if he should have written any of that down. His hands are full with things he totally did not spend the entire day making.

“We’re not even dating,” he feels compelled to shout, for Stiles’ sake. Stiles still has the choice in this matter, and as his dad basically pointed out, he deserves better. A lot better than Derek, than what he can offer him. 

“That’s too much information,” Stiles’ dad hollers back, but he can see the eye roll from where he’s standing. Derek’s still processing things when the cruiser leaves.

He gulps before letting himself into the house. He yells for Stiles up the stairs, but doesn’t get a reply. He sets the food down before going to find him, hears his heartbeat a little fast. He doesn’t know if finding Stiles jerking off will be the single best moment or worst moment of his life, because now is really not the time for this to happen, when his head and his body want different things.

He finds Stiles with his face pressed into his pillow, arms safely by his side, and this worries Derek. He knows Stiles, has had to adapt to how much Stiles jacks off, has had to smell the warm, salty smell of his come for most of this summer, although he hasn’t seen Stiles do it, but can imagine enough. Stiles jacks off all the time. Which is why it’s worrying that he has the house to himself and he’s not doing it.

His headphones are blaring crappy, pop punk rock into his ears, loud enough to deafen a human, and it’s painful for Derek to hear, standing yards away. He clearly wants to block out something, and Derek wonders how used he is to his hearing.

“Stiles,” he says, then tosses a pen on the desk at him, because he didn’t notice. Stiles’ eyes bleed red, but he blinks and warm amber glares at him.

“What are you doing here, Derek?” Stiles says, and Derek feels a sting of hurt, for some stupid reason. “Not that I don’t want you here or anything, but I don’t really want to see people. Look, jammies.” He points to the long blue and white pyjamas he’s wearing.

“I know, but your dad rang-”

“For God’s sake, I’m _fine,_ it’s just painful-” Stiles starts, voice harsh.

“He was worried,” Derek cuts over. “Your dad was worried about you so he rang me to bring you food and help you feel better. Be glad that you have a dad like that.”

Stiles goes silent at that, eyes half-lidded. He studies Derek under dark, crescent moon eyelashes. “Where have you been?”

“I made you dinner.” Derek says finally. “I slept for longer than I wanted to.”

“You know, if I didn’t know you the way I do I would find it pretty funny that Derek Hale made me chicken soup.” Stiles says, sitting up. He sniffs and pulls a face. “Smells pretty good.”

“Old family recipe,” Derek says carefully. Stiles nods, but he still looks confused.

“I don’t know how to feel about this,” Stiles says honestly, running a hand through his hair. “About all of this, actually. About you, about the Alpha thing, I just…my brain keeps changing its mind. First I’m okay with being the Alpha, I just feel like I do during exercise, energised, but then I’ll hear my next door neighbours beating off and I want to die. I never wanted to know that much about my neighbours. I’m just so confused and I don’t know…”

His gaze is serious and earnest, boring into Derek like a laser, and he nods, gulping down air. This is difficult enough for Stiles without Derek being here, without the mate idea. It’s so difficult to want to go anywhere, though, when the scent of him seems stronger than ever, concentrated by the bite, purified and glorious.

“I’ll go, then,” Derek offers, although he’s unsure if he could. Stiles doesn’t say anything for a second so he nods and turns towards the door.

“No, wait!” Stiles suddenly bursts out, like his brain’s caught up with his mouth. “I don’t want you to go anywhere, that’s not what I meant Derek. I’m not confused about how I feel about _you_ , that’s the one thing I’m _certain_ about, actually.”

Derek nods. He’s jubilant, but he still doesn’t understand everything.  

“You came back for me,” Derek breathes, eyes wide. “Why?”

“Why did you walk in between me and the Kanima? Why did I save you from the bottom of the pool? Why did you keep Peter away from me? Why would I have sawed off your arm? Why did you tell Scott to take me first? Why did you teach me how to fight? Why did you kill an Alpha for me? Why did I kill an Alpha for you?” Stiles asks but his tone is matter of fact. His eyes are difficult to read, but they’re very warm.

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, it’s not, is it?” Stiles grins. “You for some reason, make me want to be better. You, along with about two other people on this planet, make me care and worry about someone that isn’t myself, even before I was a werewolf, right from the start. Because you’ve always tried to save me (excluding the head to the wheel thing). _You_ make me selfless.  And I have no idea why. Do you know why?”

Derek is silent, thinking things over.

“Derek,” Stiles said softly, his name a question. His eyes are warm, caressing, and just in that moment he’s dragged back into every time he’s looked at Stiles, when he’s tried to communicate _I love you_ and _I’m yours_ and _stay with me_ into every fucking glance. But now he can actually say it out loud. “So…what does this entail, exactly? This mate thing?”

“A lot of werewolf sex.” Derek says, joking, because it’s the first thing that comes into his head. What can he say. Stiles makes him into a giant kid. Not his fault.

Besides, Stiles’ flushed, sputtering reaction makes it entirely worth it.

“Are you serious?” he eventually chokes out, choking on what seems to be air.

“It’s just a little sex,” Derek acquiesces, making a little gesture with his hands. “Not a lot.” Stiles rolls his eyes and pretends to laugh.

“Derek.” He’s trying to be serious, but his face is just too familiar and too perfect to take fully seriously. Especially when his voice sounds like he’s repressing the urge to jump around like a little kid. Derek can vaguely empathise. It feels like he’s got pixies playing table tennis near his stomach and his heart is going at a ridiculous pace.

“We could date, if you want to. I mean I want to. You could probably sense how much I want to date you, if you tried.” Derek says, uncomfortable.

 “Huh,” Stiles leans back. Derek can practically hear his brain whirring. “I guess you’re my lobster.”

“ _Friends,_ really Stiles?” Derek says incredulously, because while _Friends_ is one of his favourite shows, now is not the time for references.

“Your knowledge of pop culture is pretty impressive, you know,” Stiles says. His eyes are warm again, caressing, and he’s grinning crookedly. “That’s important. I like it when you finish my sentences. I also like…” his voice trails off.

“Me?” Derek gulps, because his throat is suddenly dry.

“Yes, _you_ , Sourwolf, a really shocking amount, thinking about it,” Stiles grins widely, showing off those perfect teeth. Derek smiles small, but it’s an actual smile, not condescending, or a smirk; it’s the appreciative smile he uses only for him. Stiles leans towards Derek, and he wonders if his heart is going to fail, because it is pounding really _really_ fast.

Stiles grins wickedly before pressing a too-talented mouth against Derek’s. Something blossoms between them, tinders into flames that warm up Derek’s being, because it’s inexplicably perfect and it’s everything that he knew it would be, could be as they grasp at each other, weakly, like the sensation is overcoming both of them to the extent that the Alpha pair currently have the strength of two kittens, barely. Derek thinks that this is perfect, but his brain is fixated on the pain they’re both still in, and he knows this is such a bad idea.

Derek’s certain that he’s a selfish moron when Stiles has a panic attack, an inhalation of breath turning into full blown gasps, eyes clenched shut and face tightly drawn. He clutches at his jeans, at his head, claws making an appearance.

Derek is terrified.

Derek’s seen Stiles have a panic attack before, his baby sister used to get them, he knows what to do. He backs away and gives him space, before speaking to him, as soft as he’s ever spoken.

“You’re okay, Stiles, you’re fine. Just count with me, okay? Just count.” And with that, he counts from one to ten, over and over again, for what feels like an age but Derek would do this for an age, for him. Stiles joins in, the numbers seemingly ripped from his chest, but he says them, voice quiet and hoarse.

Guilt wracks his body even as Stiles quietens down, rasping for breath.

“I’ll be back,” he says quietly, and sprints downstairs and gets a glass of ice water for Stiles. He places it on the nightstand and sits on the very edge of the bed, still worried about Stiles, even though he clutches at his knees now, face pressed against his kneecaps.

This is his fault- Stiles wouldn’t freak out at his touch if he’d been there _more_ , if he’d been there when Stiles needed someone after the Argent fiasco. He’d just thought that Stiles would need time to come to terms with everything that had happened, and that, secretly, maybe he would choose to walk away from all of this. He could have, and Derek would have wanted to die, but he would have dealt with it, for Stiles. And Derek hates now that Stiles doesn’t have that option anymore -that it was taken out of his hands-because Derek wasn’t strong enough. His claws appear at his misery, and he tightens his hands into fists, ignoring the rivulets of blood that stains his clothes.

Stiles full blown whimpers, and it eats at his heart, it really does.

“Stiles,” his name is a whine.

“I’m fine,” Stiles huffs out, eyelashes fluttering.

Stiles seems to give up and folds back against the mattress, tugging Derek down with him when he doesn’t move. They’re sitting together, kicked back on the bed, position eerily similar to that of the night at the police station, when they were both paralysed. Derek knows that Stiles is a tactile person, and he takes full advantage of this, so there’s nothing but air between their shoulders.

Except this time, Derek can fully lean on Stiles’ arm the way he’d _wanted_ to and his hand rests on Stiles’ surprisingly firm stomach. He’d accidentally brushed it and Stiles had wriggled like a cat at the touch, so he’d decided the hand could stay. His hand rubs small circles into his stomach, meaningless patterns. Stiles hand cards through his hair, a little hesitant, like he thinks Derek would- _could_ \- push him away.

“Sorry for trying to jump you.”

“Never apologise for that,” he replies, voice low from the kiss still. He has to clear his throat.

They stay silent, Derek’s eyes focused on Stiles’ face for what feels like an age.

“But I shouldn’t have let that happen, Stiles. This was what you meant. We need to take things…slow.” Even though it’s the opposite of what Derek wants to do, but he knows, logically, that they are not okay, and if he’s the cause of another panic attack, he won’t be able to live with himself.

“The ‘I told you so’. Always a classy move, thanks for that.” Stiles huffs, poking Derek’s face, hard enough to bruise a human but between ‘wolves, it’s just affection. Derek doesn’t nuzzle into the touch, he doesn’t, okay he does but he’s supposed to be part canine not feline.

“It’s just weird, knowing that you, uh, _like_ me too. I was pretty certain for a while this summer that I was going to have to marry myself.” Stiles smirks, thumb rubbing at Derek’s temple. “But you like me too.” He sounds a little shocked by this fact, which is stupid, because it’s _Derek_ who doesn’t deserve Stiles, has always known this, and he’s trying to figure out what he must have done in a past life to get this lucky. “So I think you can safely assume for the rest of my life I’ll be trying to get into your pants.”

“You can wait,” Derek says wryly. His stomach flutters when Stiles strokes at the curve of his ear. Stiles makes a pleased sound in response to his heart beating faster. “Be patient. If I can wait eight years, so can you.”

“That’s real nice. Telling the ADHD kid to have patience.”

“You don’t have ADHD anymore, remember, you’re a werewolf.”

“You know, I’d forgotten,” Stiles says sarcastically. “Also, I’ve always wanted to hear someone tell me, _yer a wizard, Stiles,_ but I’m fine with this too.”

“I’ll wait for you like I always have, Stiles. For whatever you want. But I’m not going to be stupid about this.”  Derek says earnestly, pleased when Stiles’ hand trembles on his cheek. His heartbeat is tremulous.

“I won’t be either. I need to get used to the whole lycanthropy thing before I can even think of being pack manager again.”  Stiles mutters, voice tired and miserable but accepting. Derek turns around and kisses Stiles on his forehead, bitter sweet.

Stiles laughs a little and turns Derek onto his side.

He throws an arm over his torso, so their hands are intertwined, breath hot against the back of Derek’s neck.

“This isn’t a sex thing,” Stiles says after a minute. “I’m just tired of hugging pillows to death and not being able to sleep.”

Derek translates this to, _I’ve missed you._

“Do you want me to stay?” He asks, tentative. He knows rather than feels that Stiles rolled his eyes.

“If you leave I’ll rip your throat out, with my teeth,” Stiles says, voice suggestive as a hand creeps lower on Derek’s stomach. 

“Like you could,” Derek says, voice made unsteady by a yawn. “I thought this wasn’t a sex thing?”

“I’m the Alpha now,” Stiles rumbles, and Derek’s not hard, he’s not. Jesus, this kid. He kisses the curve of Derek’s neck, soft and sweet.

“Co-Alpha,” Derek corrects. Being in Stiles’ arms are making him feel sleepy so he yawns and blinks a bit.

“Let a guy have some fun. By the way, I can feel the Pack. That’s a good thing, right?” Derek’s hand tightens in Stiles’ and he’s so happy for an instant, his throat closes up. “I’ve also been Skyping and texting them and such since Thursday. I thought that you’d want to be there when I saw them, though, so Scott’s having withdrawal symptoms.”

Derek hums a pleased, positive note, and wants to say more, but falls into a deep sleep.

 

He wakes up to light hitting his face, streaming through Stiles’ window. They wake up in a pile of limbs, Stiles’ knee slotted between his own. Derek wants to groan in pain because his arm is thrown back, over Stiles’ hip and it throbs. He’s too content to do anything other than lie there, basking in the affectionate embrace, gripping the slack hand that’s just above his, like they actually fell asleep holding hands.

Stiles sniffles and makes a pleased purr that Derek knows is accidental. His grip on Derek tightens, and his morning wood nudges Derek’s ass. He shivers at the touch, but pulls himself together.

“Stiles. Don’t you want to go and take care of the problem you’ve got there?” Derek suggests, patting his arm, or what he can reach of it.

“You are such an asshole,” Stiles grumbles, fully awake now.

“This was _your_ idea.” Derek points out.

“Sometimes I’m a moron,” Stiles mutters, padding off to the shower, but not before ripping the sheets away from Derek, leaving him icy cold. He whines at Stiles for his cruelty. Is this animal cruelty? Nope, it’s not, but it sure feels like.

Derek sits up and adjusts himself through his jeans. He amuses himself by looking at the notice board above Stiles’ desk. Random tatters of paper are pinned up there, along with scattered photos of him and Scott, growing up, although there seem to be no recent shots. Derek spots a picture of Stiles and his mom, so similar looking that it makes Derek start, and wonder how difficult this must be for the Sheriff; he basically sees the male equivalent of his wife every day. Derek thought that he had it difficult, with Peter looking precisely like his father.

Derek catches sight of himself in the mirror, and he doesn’t recognise his reflection, beard longer than he usually keeps it (it’s an actual beard, for one). It’s his expression that makes him start, though; he looks so _content, pleased_ , his hair ruffled with sleep, Henley crinkled and bare feet stark against the floor. He looks like he’s at home, and he panics; the last time he felt like this, this _safe_ , he managed to get his family killed.

He stalks to the window, has one leg out before he hears Stiles call across the room, “Derek?”

He can clearly smell his panic, because Stiles is across the room in an instant, surprise written across his face.

“I’m sorry,” Derek grits out, because he _is_ sorry, he’s sorry that he’s so damaged, that it’s his fault that they’re both so wrecked.

“Stop,” Stiles says, face anguished. “Please. _This_ is _not_ your fault. I can feel everything, Jesus, Derek.” He abruptly notices that Stiles only has a towel wrapped around his waist, like he felt Derek’s panic and ran out of the shower. Now Derek wants to apologise for that, too.

“I refuse to let you become Dean Winchester,” Stiles says firmly. “Not everything is your fault or on your shoulders. Apart from making us late to breakfast with my dad, that is.” His voice is still worried, but he smiles, small at Derek, and it makes something bloom in his chest, warming him through.

“Are you sure?” And Derek’s not just talking about breakfast. Is Stiles sure that he wants _him,_ that he wants this? Because he has a choice, he doesn’t have to choose Derek, he could walk away from their partnership, and still be happy. He should do that, Derek knows. Derek should be strong enough to do it himself, but the thought of it makes him feel faintly ill.

“I am _certain_.” Stiles says fiercely, no question in his voice. “It’s you I want, Derek.”

“If you’re sure,” Derek says, voice tentative, and he will always give Stiles the opportunity to go, even though he’s selfish enough to want him to stay. But Stiles deserves so much better, his brain whispers, however, this thought is shoved to the back of his head.

Stiles nods, jaw clenched firmly, and waves at Derek to go and get in the shower. Once he shucks off his clothes and gets in, he breathes in Stiles’ glorious scent, wet and powerful, it makes _want_ coil in his gut, a pulsing knot just below his belly button. He refuses the urge to masturbate, however, because they do not have the time, werewolf stamina and all.

Once he’s out, covered in a towel, he stares at his reflection. He doesn’t look like someone a boyfriend’s father would be pleased to meet, exactly, with the beard he looks a little like a lecher. The beard has got to go.

So he’s in the middle of shaving, having stolen Stiles’ razor, when the boy in question walks into the bathroom, shirtless. The sight of his muscled torso makes Derek slaver, but he holds it together.

“Shaving?” Stiles asks, gesturing to his face.

“Rabies.” Derek says, smirking.

“Just don’t spread it.” Stiles says meekly. “While appreciate you getting rid of the stubble to impress my dad, which hello, not needed, I love the stubble, like seriously that stuff against my face-”

“Stiles.” Derek says, shifting uncomfortably. He’s still hard, after that shower, and this has to be the worst case of blue balls that he’s ever had.

“I like _you_ ,” Stiles says finally, after a second of staring. “You don’t need to change for me. Please don’t, ever, actually.”

“I can’t exactly stop right now,” Derek says, only a little irritated, because he’s half-finished. “But, noted. Thanks.”

Stiles grins and backs out of the bathroom, but not before he’s snagged Derek’s shirt. Derek frowns at the Mets shirt he replaced it with but goes back to shaving.

He feels like he’s having an affair with the Mets and that he’s betraying the Yankees, but when he sees Stiles’ pleased grin at the shirt, and the way Stiles looks in his Henley, he doesn’t say anything.

He does, however, swallow so hard that his teeth clack together. But that’s involuntary.

*****

“Derek and I have agreed that he’s going to stay with us for four days while we get your stuff sorted out, longer if he needs to,” the sheriff says, in lieu of a greeting. He has a finished plate of food in front of him, a clear sign of their tardiness.

When did they agree that, exactly?

Stiles looks confused and narrows his eyes, but settles next to his dad, while Derek sits down.

“Yeah,” Derek says quickly, catching on. “I’m going to teach you how to Change fully and how not to, uh, kill people?”

It shouldn’t sound like a question at the end.

“I think I preferred it when you guys didn’t like each other.” Stiles says, eyes wide as he looks between the pair. He’s seated next to his dad, but opposite Derek, and Derek may or may not be playing footsie under the table, apologetic movements. Derek’s boot brushes Stiles’ calf, rubbing slowly, and it makes Stiles’ heartbeat flutter and his face flush red, and Derek can smell that he’s half hard.

“Stiles, it’s not unreasonable. You can’t go back to school when you could be a threat to the other kids.” His dad says simply, and Derek can tell that he hates that his dad is being logical.

“Besides, the treaty with the Argents states that we have to take care of new werewolves. That means that you need to learn a few things about being an Alpha before you can see the Pack,” Derek points out. “You don’t want to break the treaty, do you?”

Stiles frowns so hard that his eyebrows are one long line. He pouts a little and Derek knows that that shouldn’t be as endearing as it is.

“Why can’t you guys hate each other? Please? Maybe? Think about it.”

 “It’ll just be a couple more days off, Stiles,” the sheriff says gently. “You can catch up from Lydia or Scott. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you copied their notes.”

Stiles makes a half-committal noise in the back of his throat, like he’s realised that they’re speaking realistic truth, but he’s still being petulant. It makes Derek roll his eyes, which Stiles sees and sticks his tongue out in response. John huffs at the pair of them.

“Stop being children,” he scolds. “Derek, you can pay for breakfast.  I’ll see you guys back at home after breakfast but I don’t want any _detours_.”

Stiles scowls at his dad as he leaves.

“Even my dad thinks I’m getting some,” Stiles says pointedly. “I hope you’re pleased that you’re cock-blocking both of us.”

“Thrilled, actually,” Derek says, pulling a pleasant face in response.

“If you guys think that I’m going to attack everyone at school, why did my dad take me to breakfast at a Diner? Surrounded by people? You don’t care whether I maul the early birds.”

Derek grins. He’d been hoping Stiles would ask him that. “This was a test. One you passed. You’re strong enough to repress the wolf, your primal anger. You can overcome that. Besides, you left your territory without issue.”

“Oh my god, I’m not in my territory, am I?” He buries his face in his hands. “I’m such a terrible wolf. My wolf is more of a puppy, isn’t it.”

“Well, the boundary for my territory was a few miles back, and I believe you were in the middle of a pretty heartfelt rendition of What Makes You Beautiful at that point.”

“Was I?” Stiles looks confused, like he can’t remember; he did sing, off-key but word for word, a collection of songs that Derek has never heard of before.

“My ears are still ringing,” Derek confirms, which makes Stiles roll his eyes.

“Can we have breakfast now?” Stiles says hopefully. “On a scale of one to five how likely do you think it is that they’ll serve me a live deer for breakfast? Derek? Derek why are you laughing? I’m being serious, Derek.”

*****

Telling Stiles all there is to know about being Alpha is difficult, because, for all intents and purposes, he was an Alpha this summer. He took care of the pack, he fought for them, he provided for them and he would die for them, even though he gets a poke in the side for being so corny when he says so. He’s got an anchor, too, in Derek so he doesn’t have to warn him to keep calm, he can just think of Derek and hey presto! Stiles hasn’t Hulked out, Harlem (or Beacon Hills) is still in one piece.

He still feels the need to explain, though.

  
“So it’s a mask. To stay human even when some people-” he gives Stiles a jab in the kidney at this point “ _irritate_ you you’ve got to think of your anchor and remember to breathe properly. Like meditating. It’s difficult when it’s your anchor doing the irritating though, but I’m not the annoying one, so I think you’re covered.”

“Interesting. Question: When did you become Batman?” Stiles asks, smirking. He thinks he’s so damn sassy. Sure. Derek grew up with Peter. He knows sass.

“The facial transplant is only recent. Anything else?”

*****

On the Wednesday, after another day of just wasting time, hanging out at the Stilinski residence pretending to be productive by quizzing Stiles on new material for his Junior year and helping out around the house, Derek takes Stiles out into the Forest at 2am to Change for the very first time.

The pack and Stiles’ dad (along with several bb guns) stand along the boundary lines for the Hale property, just in case, although even Derek (he’s not a pessimist he’s a realist) can admit that nothing’s going to go wrong, even though that sounds like Scott levels of optimism.

 “While I love checking out my territory, what are we doing here Derek? _Derek._ ” Stiles sing-songs his name when Derek doesn’t answer at first, leading them deeper into the forest, until they end up at a clearing surrounded by cedars. The waning moon hangs low in the sky, casting Stiles in a silvery light.

“Technically, this is _Hale_ land, Stiles,” Derek feels compelled to point out.

“Well, su casa es my casa, comprendo?” Stiles says cheerfully, kicking at the dirt awkwardly. Stiles feel that it’s his land as much as it is Derek’s territory.

“ _No,”_ Derek says in response which earns him an eye roll.

“Come on, Miguel.” Stiles says. “It’s not the full moon. Why are we out here?”        

“You don’t need the moon to Change. Don’t you want to?”

“Yeah.” Stiles says uncomfortably, shifting in his shirt. Derek knows that he can feel the desire for Change. “Derek, I’m going to get naked now. Not with you staring at me like that, anyway. Can you turn around?”

Derek lets his eyes trek up and down Stiles’ body appreciatively.

“That is a leer, right there.”Stiles points, voice trembling slightly.”I don’t want you to see me naked.” Flushes beautifully and he doesn’t wonder how far down that goes.

“You know you’re beautiful.”Derek says grumpily, but turns around. He feels a kiss at the back of his neck. Before the sound of shifting bones, a clear crunch, and a gasp fills the air. He turns around and before him, almost lanky looking, is a wolf.

Derek wants to laugh.

He’s beautiful, really, and so Stiles that he wants to hug him, although the wolf is staring at him with intense curiosity. He’s almost pure white, with grey flecks along his lower flanks, and his claws are long, curved looking, but he’s taller than Derek and lithe with it. He yips at Derek, brown eyes steady and serious, and Derek reaches out to stroke behind his ears.

Stiles rumbles, a purr, and makes a growling sound at Derek afterwards, as if to say _why did you make me do that_ although it sounds more like an invitation to snuggle, to Derek. He laughs and Stiles butts his hand with a cold nose. This means _hurry up._

Derek shucks off his clothes, less neatly than Stiles, and shifts.

They stare at each other for a moment, colours so starkly different that it’s almost funny. Night and day, they complement each other. Derek steps forward and licks at Stiles’ nuzzle, and Stiles buries his face behind Derek’s ear.

His wolf growls, pleased, positively snugly that this has all worked out so well, that they can belong to each other, be together.

Stiles grumbles at Derek when they start to run, but it’s necessary. They reach the back of the Hale property and stare at their home for a moment, before taking off again. They circle Beacon Hills for what feels like hours, before returning to the clearing with their clothes in. They butt heads for a minute, Derek wanting to shift back, but when Stiles curls on the ground, Derek can’t do anything but follow. He curls around Stiles, head tucked into his back, a position that’s as natural as breathing to him. 

They stay like this until Stiles’ dad finds them like that, the follow morning, butt naked. He doesn’t look impressed but doesn’t shoot Derek, so that’s a major improvement.

*****

That same day, Derek’s decided that realistically, Stiles won’t hurt the others. He is their Alpha, like it or not, and the way they’ve been bugging both of them via text, email, telegram and pigeon (Lydia has her ways) they would like him to be their Alpha, like he was this summer.

Derek still has the Sheriff bring along a loaded gun to the Hale house.

However, when they step inside the door, all of his betas are planted around the foyer, and they all bend to their knees, and Derek’s pleased as punch (hey, it’s a saying!) at this clear sign of submission, even though that’s not how their pack works anymore. Doesn’t need to. But they accept Stiles as their Alpha, they will follow orders from him, even Scott, although he looks unimpressed with the proceedings.

“So does this mean they all want to blow me?” Stiles mutters to Derek. He frowns but the pack snort with laughter like the children that they are.

“Stiles.” His dad says, and wow, he does not sound impressed.

“Just kidding,” Stiles says cheerfully, winking at Derek which makes him frown harder. Does he have a death wish? Does he want Derek dead?

“Does this mean that they’ll do household chores?” John mutters out of the corner of his mouth, arms crossed while he observes the still kneeling pack.

“ _Dad_.”

“Well, someone needs to fix the back porch,” John grumbles, crossing his arms.

“I already did that,” Derek says, half sheepish, half proud. He frowns at the stares he receives.

“Can you say whipped?” He hears Erica whisper, and Isaac snorts with laughter. He gives them his best bitch face.

“Will they pick up groceries?” John wants to know and Stiles and Derek swap exasperated looks.

“Okay, so I’ve fallen behind a little on household chores, I’ll go to grocery shopping dad.” Stiles says generously.

“Not today you won’t,” John says pleasantly, throwing an arm around Stiles. “Lydia’s nicely agreed to tutor you for the next few days on what you’ve missed.”

Derek knows rationally that he should be fine with this. Lydia is Pack. She’s in love with Jackson, still, they still write and she will never want Stiles, not in _that_ way. But irrationally, he hates that Stiles has thought of her naked. Hates that he wanted her.

He takes out this hatred in a punishing workout that leaves him exhausted, but still fighting back irritation. So, he sits in bed and reads (not brooding, there’s no brooding going on) Proust, wishing that being in love with a teenager wasn’t making him act more like a teenager than ever.

*****

Stiles is miserable. Sure, it’s a different kind of miserable to the funk he’d been in at the start of the week, less serious, but it sucks. Not only did he have days of AP notes to catch up on (and for the record, Lydia’s notes were insane; she adds words like _pejorative_ to History notes, for God’s sake) and two pop quizzes, Lydia’s merciless in making sure that he knows as much as she does for every one of their classes before she goes home that evening.

But that’s not the only thing.

His pack is out, claiming back Hale land, doing patrols, and he’s not with them. He can feel them moving around, each individual ‘wolf like a little flare of light, and he feels that he should be with them, but his dad had imposed (not like it was unwelcome) family night on him. He’d also argued that Stiles needed sleep, at least if he wanted to go back to school tomorrow. So he couldn’t go on this particular patrol.

Even though all it means is that he’s lying awake in his bed, miserable, fighting the impulse to sneak out his window and find his Pack. He snags his phone and runs over the messages between Derek and himself, only hours ago:

**Dad won’t let me out school tomorrow I’ll hang my hair out the window heeelllp.**

_Stiles, you know that it’s for your own good_

**Thanks Derek helpful response**

_I can come and get you?_

**No, ‘spose dad has a point. Not that I need my beauty sleep, eh sourwolf? ;)**

_Okay. If you’re sure._

**Fairly certain, Der-bear. Speak to you tomorrow.**

_Never call me that again._

Stiles runs a finger over the screen of his phone, smiling. He’s still waiting for the punch line, for the point at which this is all taken from him. He can’t look at Derek and think that they’re meant to be together. Guys like Stiles just aren’t meant to be wanted, let alone, Christ, by guys like Derek, to have power over guys like Derek.

His chest seizes up when he thinks over Derek’s guilt, his certainty that he’s not good enough for Stiles and that Stiles shouldn’t love him. Stiles knows what he feels, and all that bullshit; knows that he loves Derek fiercely, an unhealthy amount and he just wants Derek to know that he deserves good things. He deserves to be loved, Jesus.

Derek Hale has the worst Dean Winchester complex he’s ever seen, and it makes Stiles want to prove himself.

He smiles into the darkness at the thought, but he’s bolt upright, unsmiling when a scratching sound resounds throughout the empty house. He casts out his senses, and he’s hit with the feeling of Derek, the scent that suddenly fills his lungs: familiar, warm, scents of forest and musk and sports stick deodorant that make up Derek, but also his emotions, scents of desperation and sadness and misery. He groans, because he’s not going to get any sleep, now, is he?

He blasts off several texts without thinking about it.

**DEREK I KNOW YOU’RE OUT THERE**

**DO NOT MAKE ME GET MY POTATO GUN.**

**Of course you’re shifted so you probably won’t even get this.**

**Derrreek I need to study** **and sleep.**

**This is the day that Christmas died**

**I will not be responsible for telling the elves that you’ve gone nuts and now wolf stalk me and I had to shoot you with a potato gun to get you away from me (although you did stalk me before anyway don’t even deny it dude we have CCTV)**

**ALTHOUGH I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DESTROY ANY OF THE LIGHT-UP CHRISTMAS REINDEER ON MY LAWN RIGHT NOW I WILL MESS YOU UP SHIT I KNEW I SHOULD HAVE TAKEN THEM DOWN DAMMIT.**

**FFS SOURWOLF NEED TO SLEEP. STOP HOOOOOOOOWLING.**

**FINE, YOUR WHINING SOUNDS TOO ADORABLE, I’M LETTING YOU IN, BUT IF YOU MAUL ME TO DEATH I AM HAUNTING YOU STARTING TOMORROW AND PARANORMAL ACTIVITY WILL HAVE _NOTHING ON ME._**

**SOURWOLF MY ASS I’M RENAMING YOU CUDDLE WOLF.**

By this point, he has a giant wolf on his bed, taking up the space with his warm, fluffy physique. Stiles curls in front of him, Derek possessively at his back, nuzzling into his neck. Stiles likes it when Derek’s the big spoon, he’s not gonna lie.

Peter Hale has nothing on this vicious monster.

*****

_Stiles, one I love you, and two, sorry for humping your side this morning. Yrs, Derek._

**Don’t worry about it, cuddle wolf.**

*****

Derek is acutely embarrassed when he climbs from Stiles’ bed the next morning, butt naked. He remembers exactly what happened; running with the pack, then feeling isolated when the others split up, longing for Stiles and ending up at his house, crying at his door until Stiles let him in. He remembers cuddling up with Stiles, and also remembers humping his side a few hours ago, longing for his mate’s touch, while Stiles had laughed. He feels so embarrassed, his cheeks are flushing red.

 While Stiles’ dad sounds like he’s asleep one room over, he doesn’t want to risk fate by staying any longer, so he steals boxers, pants and a plain, white short-sleeved shirt, pulling on the shoes he’s got by the front door. He still marvels at the fact that he has shoes at Stiles’ house, and okay, they’re just boots but still. Progress. Major progress.

They manage to keep away from each other as much as possible during the day (as much as logistically possible, because it’s so damn _tempting_ ) but at night, they can’t control their actions, so they always wake up in awkwardly tight embraces, whether they’re at the Hale house or Stilinski, but it doesn’t even occur to Derek to stay away, because, well, why would he?

He leaves a post-it note reading _good luck_ on Stiles’ forehead, and-resisting the temptation to fall back asleep next to Stiles-leaves.

He manages to sleep off the rest of the full moon, shooting off an apologetic text to Stiles after checking his phone, but falling asleep before it even sends. He sleeps for what feels like seven hundred hours, but only two have passed.

The house is oddly silent, and it makes Derek uncomfortable. He’s never lived in a silent house, and he only feels right after he’s plugged in Stiles’ iPod, and it’s blaring pop crap around his house.

He showers and after checking his bank details, the money amount he still doesn’t really want to look at, seemingly untouched by the cost of the house, he has nothing to do. He exercises, doing pull ups and push ups until his arms feel like they’re about to crack in half from exhaustion.

Now he has nothing to do.

He tries to remember what he did before the Pack began to come together.

He read a lot, but all of his books are still back at Stiles’ house. He doesn’t really want to go all the way to Stiles’ house just to get a book.

He also slept, or tried to, but nightmares were a common occurrence.

He had a job, which he’d quit at the start of the summer, because he’d been offered a promotion (for some odd reason, does he _look_ like a people person) and quit instead. It’s not like he needed the money, and the Pack needed him, or better yet, Stiles needed him.

He ends up in the living room, watching Stiles’ DVDs on the TV that he hadn’t wanted but now wouldn’t be able to live without, when his phone rings.

Fear rises in his throat, instinctively, especially when he notes it’s Stiles calling.

“Stiles.” He says, voice tight. He can hear the sounds of teenagers talking in the background, all in one place. The cafeteria. Is it seriously only lunch time? Derek’s almost certain that months have passed in the time that Stiles hasn’t been home.

“Afternoon,” Stiles says cheerfully through a mouthful of food. Derek rolls his eyes at the idiot.

“Are you okay?” There’s the part of him that needs to have Stiles healthy and well, even though there’s no need to ask; he can hear his distinctive (to him) heart beat through the line, could probably feel his emotions if he focused hard enough.

“Oh, I’m grand. I mean, I want to kill all of them, but that’s nothing new.” Stiles mutters. “The majority of the student body just seemed to get more stupid this summer, I guess. And they walk slower. I tell you, there is a special place in _hell_ for those bastards who stop for no reason. It’s not like I can _kill_ Greenburg.”

“How are you keeping calm?” Derek asks, the sound of his smile leaking through in his words. He’s still holding himself tightly, though.

It occurs to him that he wants to ask Stiles to stay overnight. It hits him like a fist that he can ask him; it’s a Friday, like the Sheriff had said, Stiles can stay if it’s not a weeknight. 

“I’m not a psychopath, I swear, but it’s you. The thought of you is keeping me calm, if not a little aroused.”

“Just skip and go and see him!” He hears someone whisper. It sounds like Isaac. It is Isaac because Stiles snaps- softly, because Isaac’s his favourite- that he can’t leave, he’s the Sheriff’s son, dammit, these things are noticed.

There’s a scuffle at the end of the line and Stiles yelps. Derek rolls his eyes when Stiles gets back the phone and says, panting audibly, “Oh hell _no,_ I did not leave the south side for this!”

“Stiles.” Derek says, frowning because he’s not used to being ashamed of Stiles, but it’s times like this that he seriously questions his life choices.

“Shut up, Mr-I’ve-never-seen- _Mean Girls_.” Stiles huffs but laughs when Derek calls him an assbutt (because he is one, even though he doesn’t understand what one of those is) and hangs up. Which totally clears up that matter.

So Derek texts him.

To: Stiles

From: Derek

**Can you stay the night**

He gets a reply in a minute, which makes him frown. Stiles has chemistry and Harris probably needs no excuse to give Stiles detention.

_Fo’ sexytiemz?_

Derek almost drops the phone, then frowns at it.

**You’re sixteen, no**

He receives angry emoticons in response which also clear things up.

He knows, though, that the pack will pour in after school, and Stiles will stay the night. Maybe even sleep in Derek’s bed, though nothing will happen.

He knows.

*****

The terror that Stiles faces in the aftermath of the Alpha attack is only to be expected, but it’s alleviated by the fact that he’s a werewolf now, and placated by scents, or the _feel_ of Derek, even if they’re not sleeping together.

And yeah, Stiles had been true to his promise and had been trying to get into Derek’s pants almost continuously, rubbing morning wood against his thigh, tempting Derek, but he’d kept his hands firmly to himself. He didn’t watch when Stiles would jerk off, purposely close to him, moaning his name, but dammit it was a close call, several times.

But it’s the nightmares that make him give Stiles the distance he needs, if not wants. He’ll shake, claws will appear, and the acrid scent of fear will clog the air.

If he hears a loud noise, he’ll shake for a second and jump five feet in the air, and Derek knows that a hand will search for his, if they’re together. They’ll grip onto each other, holding the other down, anchoring them to humanity.

Stiles begins to eat again, but he stays away from alcohol of any sort (not that it would really affect him) but downright shudders at the scent of tequila on Danny’s breath, the one time they’d picked up the pack from the nightclub the next town over.

Derek gives him space and waits for Stiles to come to him, waiting with open arms.

Stiles comes to him for comfort, when he needs to feel safe, loved, protected, he turns to Derek. Also, because Derek’s actually hilarious, he turns to him when he’s feeling uncertain and afraid. He also just wants to spend most of his time with him and the Pack, which is nothing new. However, wanting to pee around all four corners of the house is a new sensation.

*****

On a side note, a couple of weeks before the full moon, Stiles gets hurt trying to climb his roof (in a bet with Scott, let it be said, while Derek’s in the shower) and actually breaks his back. It heals in a matter of minutes, but that doesn’t matter to the Sheriff.

Derek gets shot in the ass by the Sheriff when he gets home and has to go to Deaton to get the bullet pulled out.

Stiles yells at his dad in the veterinarian’s waiting room, and his dad calmly says that Derek knows what he did. Which doesn’t impress Stiles, but he gets his dad to promise to never shoot him again.

The sheriff responds with a non-committal sound, and Derek fears for the rest of his body.

 *****

The weeks pass in a pattern like they always do when the Pack is back at school. Less time for pack meetings, although Stiles makes them mandatory on a Wednesday and Friday, but other than that he only sees them then, because without a current danger, they all seem to need to focus on schoolwork, after last year.

It took Scott’s mom a lot of negotiating, but Scott managed to continue on with this year, but he’ll have to do days of extra work to make up his grade. And even then, it’s not certain that he’ll graduate along with the others.

Derek’s more aware of the Sheriff’s rules more than ever, and he hasn’t got a phobia of the Sheriff, not exactly, but he memorises his schedule to a _T._ So Derek does a lot of sneaking around, or sneaking out of the house before John comes home, but he wakes Stiles up before he goes, so that the kid can have a shower, or else he doesn’t bother.  

Everything is calm as they settle back into a routine, and Derek hasn’t had a routine in years, but he likes this one.

Which is why he’s so scared when the full moon rolls around.

_Stiles’_ first full moon.

*****

The day starts off pretty uneventfully. Derek wakes up at the Stilinski house, and notes that as it’s a Saturday, it’s okay for him to lie in bed with Stiles for a few more hours, till late afternoon, both just talking (well, it’s more like bickering, let’s be honest here).  

It’s not okay, however, when Stiles moves to kiss his lips, scent safe, warm, and steady, and Derek knows there’s no chance that he’ll have a panic attack, not now. But still, he can’t be certain, and this isn’t a good idea.

“We can’t afford for you to lose control, or for me to be distracted. Not right now.” Derek says seriously, pushing at Stiles to let him up, off the bed. Stiles groans as Derek actually puts a barrier between them, in preparation for the full moon, a circle of mountain ash around the bed, like he’s a demon and it’s salt.

“Derek, I just told you explicitly that I think I can kiss- and be kissed- and you’re telling me to _wait?”_ Stiles says incredulously, which makes Derek roll his eyes.

“Do you have any idea how difficult this is going to be? You’re about to experience your first full moon. I think our relationship is the least of your worries.”

Stiles huffs from behind the Mountain Ash circle, his face resting on his folded hands.

They don’t sleep. Stiles mutters about invasions of privacy and Derek worrying too much in between singing ACDC, which makes Derek smile. He loves ACDC. It seems that Stiles is incapable of not moving, or making noise. So he twitches through his first full moon, but stays human.

He grits his teeth and cries out at several points, while Derek watches from outside of the circle, feeling inept and totally useless. They both fall asleep at around seven am, both too relieved to really talk or do anything aside from break the circle and Derek collapses onto Stiles’ bed.

Stiles doesn’t Change, though.

Not even once.

 

Derek wakes up to Stiles in his embrace, light filtering thinly through the window, his mate wide awake and playing virtual cluedo on his phone. Stiles swears viciously at the phone when he loses, and goes all Sherlock, tossing the android across the room onto the padded carpet.

“You’re such a Holmes,” Derek mutters, because he can see it; wickedly intelligent, a little brat.

“Then that would make you Watson,” Stiles points out, which makes Derek roll his eyes. “Aah, the glorious power of subtext!”

“Speaking of,” Stiles grins up at him before he shivers a little. “I believe I owe you something, _Miguel_.”

Stiles kisses Derek, a quick chaste meeting of lips before it turns dirty, Stiles sucking at Derek’s tongue, while Derek curls his nails into Stiles’ back.

It’s just them, and it’s ridiculous, but heaven doesn’t seem far away anymore.  He wraps his body around Stiles, in the only way he knows how, and he fits _perfectly,_ there’s no air between them, and it’s as close as he’s wanted to get for a while _._ He swears out loud at the fit, which yeah, isn’t exactly the coolest thing, but it makes Stiles laugh, which is a good thing. Derek knows that if he continues to be kissed like this? Yeah. Death will not be far off. But what a way to go. 

“Sex?” Stiles gasps at him

“Only making out until you’re eighteen,” Derek says.

“We’ll get to third base, though, right?” Stiles turns the puppy eyes on him, and Derek was not prepared enough for this.

“Once you’re seventeen,” Derek says hesitantly, because Kate messed with him when he was this age, he won’t do that to Stiles. He questions how much difference a few months will make, but dismisses the thought. It’s a matter of principle.

Stiles openly groans. “My birthday’s in April. That’s seven months away. Seven months. Over half a year.”

“You can count. I’m so proud. But, my birthday is then too,” Derek smirks. “Saves you from choosing a birthday gift. I can imagine how difficult that would be for you.”

“I’m amazing at buying gifts,” Stiles protests indignantly. “I am the _shiz._ ”

“You’re something, alright,” Derek admits and smirks when Stiles sputters.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“Mate.”

“Are we English or werewolves?” Stiles asks, then laughs when Derek tackles him to his bed.

“You know, a guy could get the wrong impression from this,” Stiles says, voice teasing, eyes glittering with warmth. He rolls his hips back into Derek’s hardening cock, a rocking movement, and Derek inhales sharply at the movement. His eyelids flutter, affected.

“If he were a moron,” Derek says sharply, coming back to awareness, vaguely alarmed with Stiles’ groans. The heady, spicy scent of Stiles’ arousal flares suddenly. He feels giddy.

Stiles pushes at him to get off, and Derek worries that he’s having a panic attack (although he hasn’t had one since that first Alpha week).

Stiles instead turns around and swiftly pulls Derek against him, crushing their weights together. Derek swears when Stiles spreads his legs, which makes him slot neatly into the cradle of his hips. He shivers all over when Stiles runs his blunt human nails over his back, near the hem of his jeans, and he doesn’t whine. The sound he makes isn’t strong, though.

“Just making out? Are you sure about that?” Stiles says, voice coy as he sucks an impressive hickey on the underside of Derek’s jaw, making his breath come out in pants, especially when Stiles is rolling his hips, minutely, almost unaware of the movement.  Stiles kisses at any skin he can reach, almost reverently, and Derek is smiling like a doofus.

He’s certain about a lot of things; he’s certain that he will never want anyone else apart from Stiles, he’s certain that he’s got a Stiles, a bed, a roof over his head, a Pack and he doesn’t need anything else and he’s certain that Chris Evans was better in _Captain America_ than he was in _Fantastic Four._

He’s not sure if he can last through more than half a year, waiting to do more than make out with Stiles though.

“I’m sure,” he grits out, voice uneven but his breathing is harsh and even as he’s saying it, he’s got his hands all over Stiles, one tucked into the hem of his jeans, thumbing his belt, hand pressed against the dimples at the base of his spine that he’s _always_ wanted to touch, and another is curled in the back of his shirt, to keep it from straying. He’s lost all control of his body, his hips are rolling in rhythm with Stiles’ a slow grind that’s as natural as it is _amazing and torturous_.

Stiles licks over his throat, sucking a hickey onto his adam’s apple, hips bucking, and Derek’s going to come in his pants. Then, Stiles nips at the corner of his mouth.

He’s not sure whether he can last seven months.

Or better yet, seven seconds.

Yay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this is a little late. This will descend into crafty and almost constant (there will still be plot, don't worry) smut from here on out. Derek's cockblocking skills may rival Harry Potter's, but Stiles won't be sixteen forever.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Stiles get a little caught up in new activities.

Derek stays true to his word.

Despite Stiles’ pleading, and the temptation his lips provide when they’re swollen with kisses, biting, and his fluttering hands across Derek’s skin, Derek always manages to control himself enough to _stop_ his fingers reaching for Stiles’ belt, and vice versa. Stiles brings out the eyes and the pouting, and yeah, Derek has to look away, which makes Stiles grumble but Derek can kiss away the grumpiness. He’s drunk with this sensation, this ability he has, to make Stiles pant for breath, for him, and to make him _laugh_ again.

There’d been a time, just after Stiles was bitten that he’d barely smiled, and while Stiles will wake up with a nightmare every few days, shivering with it, Derek’s there to soothe him with his arms, and lips.

And that’s what is most important to Stiles that Derek is _there_ for him when he needs him, when he has random urges to pee around his house and suck dozens of hickeys on Derek’s skin (which he totally does).

Derek also tries to help Stiles with his homework, and fails miserably (because school work was never exactly his thing, he was always better working with his hands) but Stiles seems to appreciate the sentiments, otherwise known as the times that Derek drives out to the store to get Reese’s and Red Bull for cram sessions. This gets worse around the time of the SATs, or the time in which Stiles seems to forget that he needs to _eat._  

So Derek brings the Stilinskis food for three weeks during finals/SATs time, because the Sheriff can’t cook (Stiles says that his mom used to cook a lot, while his dad was wickedly good at cleaning, one half of a perfect pair) and Stiles doesn’t have time to, and his text message _cries_ for hunger (when he remembers) make Derek feel equal parts determined to feed his mate and sad. He becomes acquaintances with the folk at the takeouts in town (the healthy-ish ones) so they don’t look petrified of him anymore.

Stiles and Derek become very creative with what they can do with their clothes on for seven months.

Derek doesn’t let Stiles grind with him, because one, they’re not in a rap video and two, he knows what that leads to. Just the thought of having Stiles’ hips back against his, rutting against the firm flesh of his stomach, the thought gets him hard. And being hard while Stiles is hard, that is a different kind of hell, because he has to fight the instinct to fuck, be fucked, by Stiles. It’s difficult.

The difficulty is resolved, however, when Stiles turns seventeen.

*****

On Derek and Stiles’ birthday, a Thursday, because they share the day, it sucks that they don’t wake up next to each other. In that case, sex would be fairly easy.

Instead, Derek wakes up to Erica tossing a package at his head before ducking out the house with the other betas, for school. He vows to hold a grudge, but when he opens the parcel and notes that it’s the _Harry Potter_ films, one through eight, he knows that he won’t be able to hold any kind of burden because this present is awesome. The package’s paper reads that it’s from all of his betas, and he feels positively snugly.

He’s got the GoT books and seasons under his bed, along with a couple of posters for Stiles, and he spent like seventy dollars (he’d wanted to spend more, but didn’t want to scare Stiles off too soon) on his present. Derek is scared shitless that Stiles won’t like it, not because it’s Game of Thrones, which will be a hit, but because he’d wanted to buy Stiles something more. Not just the first season of Game of Thrones and all the books. Plus a Tully t-shirt, because with the motto of _Family, Duty, Honour,_ he wouldn’t be anything else.

Derek texts Stiles a slightly forlorn, **Happy Birthday.**

He gets a call from Stiles in a couple of hours and he kicks back on his bed, suddenly pleased.

“Stiles,” Derek says, voice pleased but firm. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“I’m in the bathroom.” Stiles says indignantly. “I wanted to hear your grumpy voice. You never disappoint, you know.”

“My voice isn’t grumpy, it’s authoritarian,” Derek protests.

“You’re not congress,” Stiles points out, which makes Derek roll his eyes.

“Hadn’t realised,” Derek says sarcastically.

“Well, if you were President we could pull a Clinton. You would look _good_ on a poster.” Stiles’ voice has dropped significantly, excruciatingly seductive.

“A Clinton?” Derek’s voice is a little shaky.

“Sex under a table,” Stiles clarifies. Derek can hear the rasp of material on the other end of the phone, and a muted gasp.

“Stiles, we’re not having phone sex,” Derek says weakly. “You are in a public place. School, in fact. Where it’s public. With other individuals.”

“Doesn’t that make it a little hotter, though?” Stiles gasps. “Imagine me going down on you in the locker room. Plus, this way, I get to relieve the boner shaped problem I’ve got in my pants because I’ve been thinking about you _and_ you get to hear me come, fall apart. Bonuses all round.”

He can hear a slick sound, along with the movement of skin on skin, slightly rough. Stiles is dripping pre-come.

“How- how are you passing business?” Derek stutters, running a vaguely shaking hand through his hair. He lets the hand tweak his nipples, which makes his cock stiffen, especially when he imagines Stiles’ hand doing the tweaking. He pulls out his cock, easy enough to do when he’s just wearing sweatpants.

“Don’t you want to hear me come undone?” Stiles rasps out. “Because of you, your hands or your _tongue,_ Jesus. I’ve always wanted to feel _you_ around me, always imagined it, Derek. You taking it, your throat bruised and wet, but _whining_ at me to do it harder, to get it over and done with so I could fuck you.”

“I’d- I’d want that,” Derek pants out, his hand moving faster, twisting slightly at the end of his strokes. In the end, he’s just humping his hand, cracked groans filling the room.

“You _would_?! Wait, sexytimez, okay. I know you’d take it so _sweet,_ ” Stiles says, voice higher and cracking. “Because you were made to, weren’t you, Derek? Made for me, like I was made for you. I want to fill you up so bad, Derek, make you forget what being empty, being alone feels like-

“Like during the full moon, when you- I- when we can’t stand to be apart, so we just stay on my bed for hours, kissing until we’re bruised, burning with it, but imagine if we were _fucking_ , Derek. I always imagine it, spreading you open, licking at you, fucking into you, filling you up for hours so we’d both feel it for days, feeling empty, because I’ve done you so _good-”_

Imagining Stiles doing this to him is making him so _hard-_

Derek’s gasping for air when Stiles comes with a silent shout, breath rugged, and that’s all he needs, Stiles’ wrecked _pants_ in his ears to make him come, all over his sheets, his hand-

It takes him a few minutes of Stiles’ coaxing to return to the land of the living, his heartbeat loud in Derek’s ears.

“This is killing me,” Stiles mutters. “You’re killing me now. I want to be with you so much right now.”

“Why can’t you?” Derek grumbles, reaching with a come covered hand for the wipes under his bed. He cleans himself up, tucking the phone beneath his ear.

“My dad wants me to come to the police station after school. The force have planned a little party and-”

“Exonerated suspects aren’t welcome,” Derek finishes. He grits his teeth.

“It’s just that dad’s on the night shift, so he wanted to spend some of my birthday with me. The pack’s doing this picnic thing at lunch on the lacrosse field, but I- I want to see _you_.”

Stiles’ voice is intensely vulnerable.

“I’ll come by tonight,” Derek promises. He can hear Stiles’ happy exhalation of breath.

“If the pack haven’t killed me for having phone sex in the boys locker room bathroom, sure,” Stiles says happily. “Jesus Christ, I need hand sanitiser. And a new phone. And a sound proof room so that we can totally do this all the time. It’d be weird if I did this in the music rooms, right?”

Derek makes a positive sound, slipping into a post-orgasmic coma. Stiles laughs in his ear, beautiful and bright.

“See you tonight, Stiles,” he mutters vaguely.

“You’re totally going to sleep, aren’t you, asshole?” his voice is fond. “Let’s see if I’ll save you some cake, then.”

Derek wants to perk up at the thought of cake (he has a sweet tooth okay) but he falls asleep.   

*****

Derek turns up at the Stilinski house at seven, and is greeted by his present on the table. He wonders when Stiles left it there, but impatience and curiosity overcomes him, and he ends up opening it, setting down Stiles’ box.

A leather jacket falls onto his lap, the leather as soft as butter. He inhales quickly, because this is expensive, dammit. He should have spent more on Stiles. He’d ruined his leather jacket before they were taken, ruined it by Changing, and it means a lot that Stiles remembered this. Remembered that Derek’s has had to wear fleeced hiking jackets ever since, and knows that he feels naked, vulnerable without the leather. The scent of this isn’t like leather, though, it’s all Stiles, like he’s been wearing it, covering it in his scent because he’d knew Derek would feel more comfortable in it if it smelled like the both of them.

He’s still staring at the jacket when Stiles gets home a minute later, looking, frankly, edible, and Derek is still stuck on the fact that this, this beautiful creature is somehow _his._ He’s wearing a short-sleeved v-neck white t-shirt with the nice pair of grey jeans that make his ass look like an ass, that make Derek want to _squeeze,_ and Derek abruptly has his nose in the curve of Stiles’ neck. He’s making happy sounds, sucking at the flesh there, his skin tasting of cold and strangers. That needs to be changed.

Stiles laughs, happy and low. “You like the v-neck, huh?”

Derek pushes his denim covered erection against Stiles, to show him exactly how _much_ he likes the shirt, and Stiles moans. He flushes all over after he makes that sound, but covers Derek’s cheek with his hand, bringing their lips together in a sweet, chaste kiss, which Derek knows won’t last. Soon enough, Stiles is nipping at Derek’s lips, kisses now biting, sucking at Derek’s bottom lip until it’s swollen. He makes a deeply satisfied sound.

Derek discovers that he likes all of this. A lot.

In fact, he loves it.

Their cheeks brush, nuzzling motions, which coat the other in their scent. Derek’s hands clutch at Stiles as he drops down to lave at Derek’s collarbone.

He pins Stiles against the nearest wall with his body, and outright groans when Stiles wraps his arms and legs around him, because they should always stay wrapped around Derek.

He carries Stiles up to his room, mouths feverishly kissing away the tastes of cake and dinner from the other, and Derek’s trying to decide between 69-ing or handjobs, or both, but Stiles chooses for him when he thumbs the ridge covering Derek’s crotch.

His eyes fly open and a really disgusting sound emerges from his throat.

“Derek, keep it down,” Stiles whispers coyly, before slipping his cock back in his mouth. Derek honest to god tries to be quiet, but the wet warmth of his mouth, tightening and licking around him in equal measures is _really_ too much to bear. He lets out an embarrassing groan.

Logically, he knows that even though Stiles’ dad won’t be home in a minute,  Stiles’ neighbours could still hear, and that this breaks rule number one, he can’t help from whining stupidly loud at Stiles’ _mouth._ Derek is dying to suck Stiles off too. And more. Much more.

He mouths at Derek’s cock through the material of his jeans, sucking feverishly through the material like if he sucks hard enough he could taste. Derek groans and pushes him away so he can tug down his jeans and boxers, in record time.

Stiles smirks, smile all _want_ and teeth, and kisses the tip of Derek’s cock. His tongue tastes around the head, sucking at the vein underneath, swallowing inch by inch and sucking so hard Derek’s half convinced that his brain may or may not erupt out of his dick. Stiles is making filthy sounds around his dick, saliva slick moans that make him want to explode-

Derek has the fight the impulse to buck into his mouth and fuck it until he comes, messily down Stiles’ throat. He bucks a little, unable not to, and stiles moans around his dick. Derek strokes along his jaw, muttering enthusiastic sounds, pleased whimpers.

He’s got a trail of saliva and pre-come dripping down his chin, and that shouldn’t be hot but it _so_ is-

Stiles opens his mouth wider, and suddenly he’s swallowed Derek down to the root, and his throat is flexing around Derek in really pleasant ways. He groans, absolutely wrecked, “Stiles.”

Stiles moans, the hum reverberating through him and making him _shiver_ -

Stiles bobs his head, making appreciative moans around Derek’s cock, and he’s going to come, he can feel the frenzied heat in the bottom of his stomach and he whines, long and hard-

“Stiles, I’m going to come if you don’t stop,” he pants. Stiles pulls back and Derek breathes through his mouth. The feeling starts to fade, but he knows he’s a goner when Stiles leans forward and plays with his balls, sucking appreciatively on his thigh, leaving a hickey which Derek’s possessive alter ego (Burt) really likes-

Derek makes a really embarrassing groan and comes immediately, but Stiles has his mouth back on him, swallowing it all down, milking him until he’s soft. Derek collects at the come dripping down his chin and pushes two fingers into Stiles’ mouth. Stiles sucks, mouth quick and pleased, while he ruts against Derek’s thigh. It hits him like a freight train that he wants to see Stiles come- because of him. So he pulls his fingers out of Stiles’ mouth- which earns him a pained whine, but Derek makes a soothing sound, reduced to mumbling and half-vocal sounds because of Stiles’ talented mouth.

He runs a hand appreciatively down Stiles’ front, stroking his nipples into little, stiff peaks, which he nips at through the material. It makes Stiles shout out when he does that. Derek grins as his hand makes the final destination point, and cups Stiles’ hardness through the jeans he’s still wearing (why again is he wearing those he should be as naked as he can get right now) and grinding the heel of his palm against it. Stiles throws his head back, unintentionally baring his throat and  _God_  he wants to mark that skin, bite down until the skin breaks, until he tastes blood, until Stiles is bound to him—to the pack— _forever_ -

Derek leans down, setting his teeth against the base of Stiles’ throat again as he strokes firmly against Stiles’ erection, still trapped in the confines of his boxers and jeans. He’s seized with a sudden urge to make Stiles just absolutely come undone beneath him, to see him panting and begging, to know that he’s the one doing it-and he needs it  _now_. He lets his teeth scrape against Stiles’ neck, lets Stiles’ hips push frantically up against the pressure of his hand-

He keeps going, Stiles’ hands fluttering over his back and clutching him closer, keeps going until those hands suddenly dig into his shoulders and Stiles whines, loud and long as wet warmth soaks through his jeans against Derek’s hand. He slumps against the pillows, his shirt rucked up and his mouth a deep red curve, lips just a little swollen. He looks wrecked. 

“So I’m dead,” Stiles pants out. “My cause of death is in fact your entire being. Congrats.”

Derek wants to talk back, but his brain is dazed at the moment. He mutters out a vaguely confirmative sound, but it sounds like an exhalation, crossed with a happy pant.

“You too? Good.” Stiles pats at his face, squashing his hair, and Derek cannot honestly bring himself to fix it, or do anything but pull up the covers. He knows, logically, that waking up will be disgusting, they’re going to be cemented, Jesus Christ (sorry), but at the moment Burt’s taken over and waking up, soaked in each other’s scent sounds absolutely perfect to Derek right now.

Aside from the fact that Stiles is still fully clothed for some stupid fucking reason.

Derek gets to unwrap him, like the gift he is, pulling off layer after layer, nipping at the skin that he meets, until Stiles is naked save for the boxers underneath him. The glorious, freckled skin that he’s dreamt about. He’s gripped with the urge to taste Stiles’ cock, because his scent has been like a drug to Derek for years, and the taste?

He pushes the stained boxers out the way, and laps at the come on Stiles’ dick, gentle laps that aren’t meant to excite necessarily, but Stiles mewls and tugs at Derek’s hair. The taste of him is bitter and _Stiles_ and that makes it so much hotter. Once he’s satisfied Stiles is clean, he collapses back on the bed with Stiles, their legs entangled. Stiles has him in his arms, and he’s muttering praises to high heaven into Derek’s hair, so Derek just wraps an arm around the body pressed at his back, and spent, falls asleep.

 

“Oh my God, Derek wake up,” is the first sound he hears in the morning. His eyes open sleepily, and when he notes that Stiles isn’t on the bed, but standing, fully clothed, he lets out a sub vocal growl. He can’t be blamed for tugging Stiles back onto the bed, back into his arms, arms wrapping tightly around him and snuggling. Derek can’t help that he’s a tactile person. 

“Now is not _huggie_ time, okay, my _dad_ remember? He shot you in the ass once before, don’t think he’d mind doing it again,” Stiles hisses, pulling out of Derek’s iron grip, because he’s also a werewolf and therefore can. “Come on, you broke rule number One. Sex in the house. He’s going to be home in like a minute, _Derek_.”

So Derek sneaks out of the house like the actual teenager he’s become, and the run home passes in a blur. He changes into sweatpants, passes out in bed, and dreams of Stiles.

 

He only manages to nap for what feels like a minute before he’s tugged awake by the vaguely feral need for Stiles. Not just Stiles, though, the way he talks and laughs, the stuff that has Derek constantly mesmerised, but also the sounds he makes while coming, while making Derek come, the _taste_ of him. He’s basically driven insane by it.

The sensations overcome him, almost, but he jerks off, and it makes things better.

He’s reduced to a horny teenager all over again, and the thought terrifies him- this is what he’d been like with Kate- but then he remembers.

Remembers that Stiles is nothing like Kate, at all.

But it’s not just that he _wants_ Stiles, nope, it’s nothing like that at all. He’s always wanted Stiles, has had to suppress that feeling for years. That’s nothing new.

He has an ice cold shower, and it wakes him up, a little. He still feels like he’s engulfed in this heat, though, when he gets out. He finds a tray of ice cubes and eats them while looking on Peter’s laptop (which has more porn on it than he’s ever gonna be comfortable with) for some sort of explanation, when it hits him.

They’ve just given themselves heat aches.

Heat-aches. For each other, for each others’ bodies. They won’t die without each other, they’ll just want each other- for sex, for anything- all the time. Not too different to any other teenaged couple, but this is a mate bond, newly initiated.

Derek breathes in and out slowly, before he makes himself do exercise to get his mind away from it.

He needs a distraction, something that keeps him from driving to the high school, and doing Stiles in the locker room.

So after he’s made himself exhausted with exercise, he plucks up his confidence, and rings Uncle Mark’s Autoshop and asks if they have any positions going. It’s something that’s occurred to him before, before Stiles’ dad made some snarky, joking comment about the fact that he’s unemployed. Derek’s seen the circled ads in the newspapers that Stiles has left in every bathroom at the Hale house. Stiles is as subtle as a gunshot.

He’s lucky that it’s Thomas who answers the phone. Luckily enough, his manager’s just retired, so there’s that position. Derek’s got to go into the shop and audition, so to speak, but seeing as he’s Mark’s nephew, Thomas seems pleased, and says that he’s looking forward to have some of the “Hale Magic back in the shop” and Derek’s unsure whether he’s talking about his ability with cars, or the lycanthropy, or both.

He promises to come into the shop tomorrow and hangs up, stupidly pleased with himself. He texts Stiles about it and gets three texts worth of excited emoticons in response.

*****

The thought of this however all but disappears when Stiles gets home, even though Derek’s pulling out all the wife-beaters he owns for the shop and folding them into piles Stiles himself would be proud of, they get knocked to the side by Derek and Stiles and their combined libidos and heat-aches.

Stiles jumps him from behind and Derek mock snarls, but it’s really a laugh. Stiles climbs him like a tree, arms and legs wrapped around him, totally trusting Derek to hold him up. Which he does, hands on his ass and back, lips currently engaged by Stiles. He whines at Stiles when he pulls away, but wants to growl in satisfaction when he realises that Stiles just stripped off his shirt. He reaches for Derek’s, and Derek grunts when he has to remove one hand from Stiles’ ass, but squeezes viciously when he gets a handful of _dat ass_ back, and the sound that falls from Stiles’ mouth makes his knees _buckle-_  

The feel of their skin, pressed naked together- is indescribable-

“Miss me?” Stiles groans against Derek’s mouth. Derek just nods fervently and moves to capture Stiles lips again, because they were doing interesting things to his mouth and the sensations were shooting _straight_ to his dick-

When Stiles scrapes his mostly human nails against Derek’s skin, _Stiles_ is the one that makes the injured sound, like it hurts to have Derek in his arms, after they’ve been craving each other all day. Derek made a sound somewhere between and moan and a growl in response, and then Derek pins Stiles against the wall, abruptly afraid that he’s going to leave. Logically he knows that he won’t, he can smell that Stiles wants him as much as Derek does, but he just really wants him to stay. Stiles sucks at his tongue, and Derek can’t understand how coercive force and slow tongues go together but they go together so well when it’s _Stiles-_

 A framed photo of the Pack rattles as his back slides up the wall, but neither of them really notice it. All Stiles wants to do is sling his arms around Derek’s neck and hold on for dear life as this new position slams them together at just the _right_ angle for Derek to rock up and into him, pushing them together, so they’re rolling their hips _in sync-_

“Oh God,” he gasped as Derek, breathing hard, drops his mouth to suck and bite kisses into the tender flesh of Stiles’ neck, because it’s so beautiful to Derek that he can, that he can mark Stiles without being scared of really hurting him, stubble rubbing the skin almost raw, seeing it heal almost instantly is just _breathtaking-_

He continues to grind himself against Stiles while Stiles ruts against his stomach, and it might’ve been way too soon for Derek to feel pleased about it, but he can already feel the agonising heat of orgasm starting to burn in his belly with overwhelming persistence. The rub of denim against his cock creates such shudder- _perfect_ friction that he groans deep in his throat, hands clutching at Stiles’ ass and upper back with bruising force, because that’s as strong as he’s feeling, strong with emotion, and it’s in the air, it’s thick with it-

“Okay, Derek, we need to slow this down or it’s gonna be the fourth of July-” Stiles says significantly, but does nothing to slow his hips, saying the words against Derek’s lips, tongue dipping out to taste the bite marks he’d just left, the small, reddening indentations-

Derek can feel how far gone they both are. Derek pulls back to rub his beard across Stiles’ lips, then catches the edge of his chin with his teeth, which are a little canine looking. “Are you sure that you want to stop?”

Stiles full-blown _gasps_ when Derek bites at his bottom lip, catching it with his teeth, hard enough to draw blood and cause pleasure in equal measures, making him thrust errantly, no pattern to it, and that’s so beautiful that Derek has to make him come, _now_ , he has to-

Stiles cries out, fingers tightening in Derek’s hair and hips bucking involuntarily when Derek drops to his knees, pulling down Stiles’ zipper with his teeth. Not that he’s desperate for Stiles’ cock, or anything. Derek quickly tackles pulls them down to his knees in one movement along with his boxers. He catches Stiles’ cock between his lips, stroking at the bared flesh of his stomach, caressing with all the gentleness that Stiles deserves, holding him steady so that Stiles doesn’t break his hips with his movements, or Derek’s face for that matter-

He sucks in a finger, along with the mess of pre-come and saliva, and he traces Stiles’ hole with this finger, stroking absent patterns. He’s just managed to push the very tip of his finger in, tight muscle clenching beautifully when Stiles comes-

Stiles yelps out Derek’s name, trailing it with whimpers as he climaxes, hips giving aborted, small jerks as he rides out his orgasm and tries to ride Derek’s finger, skin throbbing so warm around him. Derek gives an appreciative hum and takes everything Stiles has to offer, no surprise and no hesitation as he drinks him down, somehow the weight and taste of Stiles in his mouth has gotten _better_ since _yesterday-_

Derek pulls out his dick and starts jerking off roughly, using the taste of Stiles strong in his mouth, and the memory of Stiles around his finger to relieve himself of the ache-

Stiles hand covers his, electricity flares, and in just two strokes, Derek is coming. The orgasm seems to last, almost painful in how good it feels, and he kinda wants to sob with it, pleasure punching through him like electricity, like fire hollowing him out. It feels like hours before his hips have stopped trying to fuck into his and Stiles’ hands, and crying because _Jesus fucking Christ_ he’s just been slapped by God.

Derek slumps forward against Stiles’ legs, chest heaving with exertion, a dopey pleased smile on his face.

“Okay, four for us, go us,” Stiles says shakily, carding a hand through Derek’s sweaty hair.

Derek nods in total agreement.

“You okay down there, babe?” Stiles says gently, hand pulling Derek to his feet and back to the land of the living.

“I think so,” Derek says tentatively.

“Killed Derek with orgasm is gonna go on my college application,” Stiles says, only a lot smug, which makes Derek grumble.

“Shut up, Stiles,” he mutters, which makes Stiles laugh, because they both sound as weak as a pile of newborn kittens. Actually an insult to the kittens, Derek thinks.

“C’mon,” Stiles says, tugging Derek towards the bed that’s only a few feet away, and Derek loves wall sex. Loves it.

And it’s Friday, so Stiles can stay over. He tugs Stiles into his arms and after bickering about who has to make breakfast- Stiles can actually cook pancakes, he should make them something, as opposed to Derek, who always seems to cook- they fall asleep, tucked around each other.

*****

As it turns out, being in Stiles’ company for thirteen hours’ worth of sleep manages to calm Derek down, a lot. The heat ache is still there, but Derek no longer feels like he’s crawling out of his own skin, like he’s about to explode and Change.

Derek stumbles downstairs, and sure enough, Stiles is cooking. Okay, call that crisping any breakfast goods, but he’s still at the stove, wearing nothing but Derek’s sweatpants, and Derek thinks that’s the best thing he’s seen for a while, aside from Stiles blowing him yesterday- or was it the day before yesterday?

That’s the thing with the heat-aches, it makes everything seem inconsequential, and Derek knows that he’s got to go to the Auto-shop, and Stiles probably has homework, and they missed out on a pack meeting last night, which are all things he should be worrying about, but he, uh, isn’t. As Ron would say, he _needs_ to get his priorities sorted.

“Morning,” Stiles says, voice still deep from sleep, and Derek’s struck by the impulse to ask Stiles to move in with him after graduation.

Instead he mutters back a greeting, because he’s not a morning person, or a night person, really, he’s a during the day kind of person. Sort of.

“Should we tell them that we’re doing this?” Stiles says through a mouthful of charred pancakes. Apparently Stiles can’t cook pancakes. Even those ones that are ready made in a bag. Who knew. 

“I’m not ashamed of you,” Derek says, but he’s struck by the thought that maybe Stiles is ashamed of him.

“I’m not either,” Stiles says, voice full of certainty. “At all. Have you met you? They’re going to be weird about this though. All of them, all match-maker like, with the jokes about being a real boy and Pinocchio, Derek, I may have to kill them. I don’t want to, but Jesus Christ, they’re going to be annoying about this. And social conventions like Facebook, please kill me now. Wait, do you know what Facebook is? Was?”

“I know what Facebook is, Stiles, I’m not from the medieval period,” Derek tells him pleasantly.

“With your jaw line, are you sure about that? Besides, it’d be kinda hot, wouldn’t it? Sneaking around, like we have been? But with me actually getting some play, this time,” Stiles points out, and Derek pretends to think it over. He wants whatever Stiles wants, simple as that. Probably not the healthiest idea ever, but there you have it.

“We’ll tell them all once you turn eighteen. I’m not getting shot again.” Derek says.

“Smart plan, babe. Now. Quickie in the shower, before we part ways?”

“Stiles,” Derek says shortly. “We’re not having, uh, penetrative sex until we get condoms, at least.”

“Bucket-loads,” Stiles tells him. “Enough to fill the Jeep. Although that’d be kinda noticeable, don’t you think?”

“After my audition,” Stiles does a drum roll on the table at the word audition, which makes Derek smirk, “I’ll drive to the next town over and get us some. Then, tonight or whenever, we can…”

He’s unsure how to phrase it, because he’s not shy, dammit, but he can feel that he’s blushing to the very tips of his ears for no fucking reason.

“Bump uglies?” Stiles provides. “Slot tab A into tab B? Put your junk in my trunk? Making the beast with two backs?”

“I love it when you quote Shakespeare at me,” Derek says dryly, and Stiles snickers.

“Come on, though. Ha. Let me blow you down to funky town. We both need a shower.” Stiles suggests, voice pleading, and just in case Derek was going to turn him down (he wasn’t), Stiles brings out the puppy eyes, and really, how could Derek ever say no to those?

So Stiles jerks him off in the shower not ten minutes later, and Derek returns the favour, setting his mouth to Stiles’ nipple and bringing him off with two of his fingers. The shower ends without bloodshed, although they’re both bruised, Stiles from jolting in shock when Derek first pushed his finger in (with lube, though of course because he respects Stiles and doesn’t want him injured) and Derek cut open his hand when his grip tightened on the hanging, wire soap dispenser, pulling it apart. The cut’s just a faint, pink line, now though.

 They get dressed and Derek persuades Stiles to wear one of his shirts, even though he’s just going back to his house to write a painful amount of essays for his homework (three essays, _THREE_ ) and then on to some _wild_ group meeting at the library for a Chemistry project.

Stiles gets Derek to promise that once he’s back at the house, condoms in hand, he’ll text Stiles, Stiles will feign illness and come rushing to the Hale house (his dad’s on night-shifts, which Stiles doesn’t like, but he can admit that they have their uses). None of the pack is in this group, apparently, because only Allison and Lydia are in the AP classes, and the groups were picked based on alphabetic order.

They make-out lazily, folding against each other, before Derek shakes off the edges of the heat-ache, pushing Stiles towards the Jeep while he heads for the Camaro. He waits for Stiles to leave, checks that he gets out of the forest okay, before heading towards the Auto-shop.

*****

Thomas hadn’t actually told him a time, but it’s just gone nine when he gets there. He parks the Camaro and stalks into the shop, raven sized butterflies fluttering in his stomach. The shop hasn’t changed, aside from a lick of paint, and the scents of gasoline, grease and rubber are as familiar as ever.

So is Thomas’ face when he greets Derek at the door.

“You look exactly like your uncle,” are his first words, and Derek’s pulled into a spine-crushing hug a second later. He’s so uncomfortable it’s not even funny, but he pats at the man’s back, trying to think about what Stiles would do.

“Thank you,” he says hesitantly. “For saying that, and for this.” He nods his head at the shop. The shop itself was left to Derek, when he’d turned twenty-one, and Derek had signed it off to Thomas, because he hadn’t known anyone else who’d loved cars, had been as good at working with cars than Thomas (aside from himself, and he hadn’t been ready to go back to Beacon Hills then).

“It’s no problem.” Thomas says unselfconsciously. He doesn’t mess around with words, Thomas, he’s blunt and to the point. So he has Derek pull apart the engine of his own car, his sister’s baby, the Camaro, and put it back together in the space of four hours.

Apparently it’s what they do in lieu of an interview.

Derek has to check over the details of his car, too, to check that everything’s working as well as it should, and he admits that the shocks could use some work. By the time the four hours are up, the car’s back together, thankfully whole, but Derek wants a shower and a cuddly cushion, he’s man enough to admit that. And he wants a Stiles.

But the good thing is, the heat of the work, the exertion of it, had kept his mind off Stiles. Thankfully.

Thomas just slaps him on the back and tells him that he’s hired.

He lets him clean himself up in the back bathroom, before making him work a full shift, saying that they’ll work out the details of his pay-check when Derek’s finished the six hour shift. He’ll have a half an hour break in between, though, so Derek shouldn’t worry.

He’s faintly certain that he’s working for a torturer.

He still needs a snugly pillow and a Stiles.

*****

He gets one half of that when he gets back to the Stilinski house, climbing through the window, knowing that he’s let Stiles down, in a way; werewolf or not, he’s exhausted, and sure, he’d love sex with Stiles, but he’d barely trusted himself to drive to the Stilinski house and park two blocks away, let alone drive and get condoms. They’ll just have to wait a little longer, a day at most. The heat-ache can last that long.

The run to the house clears his brain a little, but he’s still knocked out by Stiles’ scent when he clambers through Stiles’ unlocked window at ten pm. As it turned out, another guy had called in sick, so Derek had picked up half of his shift as well, and he’d walked out with the promise of twenty bucks an hour, so he’s happy. Tired, but happy, like he can actually be the person he wants to be, for Stiles. The mostly responsible Alpha mate.

He climbs on Stiles’ bed, collapsing by his side.

“Der’k?” Stiles mumbles, waking up slowly, reaching for him with grabby hands. The touch of their hands makes Stiles shiver, and a pleased sound emits from his chest. The sleepy smell of him makes Derek want to rub like a cat and purr like one too.

 Especially when he notes that Stiles is hard.

“Waited up for you but got tired. Sex uses a lot of muscles, y’know?” Stiles yawns, sitting up. He adjusts himself under the sheets, and Derek strokes absently at the ridges of muscles along Stiles’ torso. “Burns seventy four calories.”

“Smart-ass,” Derek grumbles and Stiles snickers, now mostly awake. He sniffs at Derek, and his eyes flash red. Stiles has impeccable control, and he gloats, a little. “Did you just wolf out a little?”

“No,” Stiles scoffs. “The eyes don’t count.”

Derek huffs a laugh and leans forward, sitting up entirely, and wraps a hand behind Stiles’ neck to pull him into a kiss. His hand, acting of its own accord, Derek might add, curls around Stiles’ waist to tug him closer.

Stiles straddles him.

His hand curls into Stiles’ shirt, nails tearing it, a little, hands tracing those beautiful dimples at the bottom of his spine.

“I assume you won’t have sex with me while wearing a condom that says _hungry like a wolfie_ on it, will you?” Stiles says, only slightly out of breath.

The look Derek shoots him with makes him laugh, loud and breathless.

Derek ruts against him, rubbing their crotches together for an instant, but Stiles isn’t laughing anymore-

 Stiles groans, and rolls his hips down. A shudder runs through Derek— an  _honest to God_  shudder— and he nips at Stiles’ lips. Stiles whines, only laughing a little still, and rocks back against Derek, so he’s acutely and painfully aware of Every. Single. Rock. Hard. Millimetre. of Stiles _freaking_   Stilinski, and he wants that in him-

“Holy God,” Stiles practically sobs and Derek wraps his arms around Stiles’ shoulders and presses his forehead to Stiles’, breathing heavily. They rock against each other for a few long, hot minutes, Derek’s hands flat against Stiles’ back, possessive, safe in the knowledge that no one will be able to take him from him, pry him from him, or vice versa. They belong to each other, always have, always will-

Derek’s lips find Stiles’ neck again, where he presses open-mouthed kisses sporadically. Stiles is pretty much a mess of meaningless syllables, his mouth open and his eyes closed. His jeans are too, too, too restrictive, Derek thinks, but it’s a very distant thought that’s a lot less important because there’s heat pooling in his belly and the hard length of his trapped cock feels so, so good- 

“I— shit,” he grumbles, trying to make himself slow down— make this last a little longer, not be so much of a teenager. He’s supposed to be twenty four, dammit. Shit. Twenty five.

Derek grunts and surges upward, capturing Stiles’ lips in a kiss and, whines, stupid and loud, when Stiles pulls down his sweatpants so that his flushed cock and full balls are above the elastic of his pants. Stiles’ smart fingers free his trapped cock, stroking reverently, and Derek thrusts, helplessly, _arching_ -

Derek rolls his hips again, catching Stiles’s aching, now-bare dick in the motion. Stiles keens- 

“ Holy God!” 

Stiles should be clumsy at first, Derek expects it, but he’s so shocked when Stiles reaches, confident in his feelings, his senses, and Derek loses any semblance of thought when Stiles’ fingers pinch a little at the head, grazing over the slit, just so, like he’s scared that he’ll _hurt_ Derek-

 “You okay, babe?” Stiles asks, teasing, squeezing Derek ever so slightly at the nickname, and Derek hisses.

Derek straight up fucks into Stiles’ hand, and then Stiles seems to remember how hard and ready he is- they’re both leaking steadily, spitting out drops of pre-come, just from this small touch- Derek’s so ready for this, for all of Stiles. Stiles arches up, brushing his cock against Derek’s, wrapping his fingers around both of them. 

Derek sucks in a breath. The blinding sensation of Derek’s cock against Stiles’, both under Stiles’ long fingers, is earth-shattering, stomach-dropping, _mind-blowing_ —

It takes a few tries, but they find a rhythm of rocking against each other, both of them fucking into Stiles’ hand. Derek braces himself low, on his elbows and forearms, crowding Stiles into the bed. Occasionally they’ll press kisses to each other’s necks or chests, but it’s an effort neither of them are capable of sparing when all of their attention and energy is going into grinding against each other, fucking off together in Stiles’ _hands-_

And Derek has this condition, it’s called Stiles’ hands-

“Stiles—” Derek grinds out, in no time at all, really, and Stiles nods emphatically.

“Uh huh,” he near-whines, his hips bucking off the bed, his hand tightening, and Derek is gone— coming first in hot spurts, and triggering Stiles’s orgasm— which rips through him, white hot and blinding and so, so _, so_  damn good- 

“One day, we will get an award,” Stiles pants out when he reaches planet earth again.

“For what?” Derek says.

“Fucking ourselves to death with the most finesse,” Stiles says, patting Derek’s arm in some sort of congratulations.

Derek mutters back a response, and Stiles tells him that before he gets to his happy place, he has something to show him. Derek perks up a little when Stiles hands him an envelope, and he’s wide awake before he knows it, deathly afraid, for Stiles.

Stiles smiles, a little, but just nods at Derek to open the letter.

He pulls out Stiles’ SAT results, heart hammering in his throat. He’d left before he could do his SATs, weren’t really important to him, but _Stiles._ His throat is closed off for a minute, in happiness.

Stiles got 2300.

He’s dating a genius, and he says so, only regretting it a minute later.

A freaking annoying beautiful genius, because he’s gloating like the little shit he is when Derek looks up, and he hugs Stiles to him, unable to say the words that he wants to.

But at the look on Stiles’ face, he clearly doesn’t need to, because he looks like he was waiting for Derek’s response, and he’s pleased by it. Derek kisses him, long and hard, trying to emit all his thoughts, all his genuinely impressed and pleased thoughts to Stiles, because Stiles deserves this success, should get it, Derek remembers that he got four hours sleep, max, while prepping for his SATs (“c’mon, Derek, if Dean Winchester can be the best hunter _ever_ \- screw Sam- with only four hours sleep, I can totally sit the SATs with four hours sleep”), logic, meet your archenemy Stiles Stilinski.

He kisses him, pleased and impressed, and so in love it literally hurts.

“Thanks,” Stiles breathes out, cheeks flushed by the time Derek lets him go.

“You’re welcome,” Derek says. “By the way. I got a job.”

“I know,” Stiles leers, petting at Derek’s dick, which is trying to harden, and no. that hurts. Refractory period, much.

“The job at the garage, Stiles,” he says, smirking. “It’s no 2300 on the SATs but-”

“Shut up,” Stiles says immediately, cutting him off. “You’re a great mechanic. Jesus, you got the job! You beautiful werewolf, you. I _told_ you you would, didn’t I? When have I ever been wrong? God, this feeds into so many of my fantasies right now, you have no idea.”

“Like what?” Derek says, a yawn ripping out of him.

“Like you bending me back over a workers’ bench,” Stiles grins. “Having sex in your car. My car, actually, seeing as I rarely go in your car. I know you like Tasha. You marking me up with grease-stained hands, and _fuck._ ” He bites at his bottom lip.

And then, they’re awake for a little while after that.

*****

Unfortunately, after that Sunday, Stiles realises that he’s not going to be able to get away with telling Scott he’s doing father son stuff with his dad, and telling his dad he’s doing bro stuff with Scott, much longer, so they part ways Sunday night.

After a day in bed, Derek can admit that he probably should do a load of laundry, but he’s feeling a little indulgent, when the sheets are rank with Stiles’ scent, in the best way. His cock’s out of commission for a few hours, even though the heat-ache throbs under his skin, sated for the moment, but still overwhelmingly there.

It’s still there when he wakes up at five in the morning that Monday and rings Stiles, in a small panic over what to wear on his first day at an actual job. He can’t remember how to be an adult. He can’t remember how to be an adult.

*****  

A shirt isn’t necessarily mandatory when he’s working on the engine, or on a part that won’t spark at him, at least. The Mercedes he’s handling is too good for that. The air is hot, humid, and makes his shirt stick to his skin and itch at the same time. So he tugs off the gray, short-sleeved t-shirt, which leaves him in a wife beater.

He turns towards the door when it jingles open.

Stiles looks half-sheepish, then downright ravenous when he sees Derek. Derek stutters a little, himself, because it may only have been two days, but it feels like a life time.

“My dad wanted me to get an oil change,” Stiles grins, eyes still a little glazed.

The scent of Stiles’ want filters through the scents of rubber and gasoline, and Derek needs to adjust himself through his jeans.

“Is this Stiles?” Thomas asks pleasantly. Stiles gives him a little wave.

“Yes,” Derek says hesitantly, waiting for some comment about age or something, because while Stiles is excruciatingly and painfully sexy at times (hell, all the time) he looks like a teenaged milkmaid. Albeit a very very very _very_ sexy milkmaid.

“Alright, you two. You can take your break now, Derek. Before the heat coming off you two sets fire to the garage.” With that he cackles and heads into the back.

Stiles waggles his eyebrows at Derek, and he gulps in response. Stiles tugs him out back, and Derek has enough sense to unlock the Camaro before he’s pinning Stiles against the car door, and their lips move together, Derek’s grabbing for handfuls of Stiles’ ass.

Stiles laughs and pulls Derek into the backseat of the Camaro. He pushes Derek down, with an apologetic kiss to his sweaty neck when he pushes a little too hard. His Alpha strength still gets the better of him, sometimes, when he’s overwhelmed, and Derek gets off on that, that he’s the one that makes Stiles lose that near-perfect control.

They make out for exactly half an hour, until they’re both so close to coming in their pants, it’s painful. Stiles’ bitten lips, sore and exquisitely _red,_ whisper in his ear:

“I’m going to the store right after this, and I’m buying condoms with my pocket money. And after that I’ll be at home, stretching myself with my fingers, seeing how many I can _fit,_ and thinking of you. Thinking about how good you’re gonna _fuck_ me.”

Derek’s feeling a little under the weather, actually.

He’s going to have to go home sick.

Shame.

 

So they spend fifty dollars on condoms. Fifty dollars. That’s the cost of a dinner at Applebees, right there (sort of) even though neither of them can get diseases. They’re both supernatural beings, but no, they cling onto the shreds of their humanity and spend too much money on contraception. Like any other gay, lycanthropic couple out there.

It’s all worth it, though, when they roll into the empty, Hale house (the pack has been told to research different things, and get to grips with school, effectively banished) and Derek pulls down Stiles’ jeans once they reach his bedroom door. He gives his beautiful cock a kiss, lips and tongue lingering, before spinning him around and lapping at his hole.

His face is pressed to the absolute core of him, and the scent that’s there is indescribable, mostly because it’s all Stiles, Stiles’ want, and that’s as perfect as anything about him.

Stiles praises Jesus, claws digging into the wood, while Derek opens him up, curling his tongue in deep once he can, laving it across his hole, deliberately teasing. He pulls out the pocket lube he’d brought (a genius idea, really) and tucks it in his pocket for later, but meanwhile.

He works in a finger and fucks him with it, searching for the spot that’ll make Stiles shiver and shout out and go fucking nuts, and makes a pleased sound when he finds it. He knows he finds it because Stiles shouts death threats about getting him up to bed. Stiles is fucking himself on his finger, but making the sexiest sounds Derek has ever-and will ever-hear-

“Enough,” Stiles pants out, claws deep into the mahogany. He can practically hear Effie in his head. “Please, Derek, _please_ fuck me already. Just get me wet and _fuck me_.”

His voice is a whine by the end.

So Derek takes pity on his mate and pulls him by the back of his Tully shirt (which does make his skin look glorious, Derek loves being right) onto the bed. He strips him fully, before realising that he’s fully clothed, there are so many things wrong with that.

He all but rips off his clothes and stares at Stiles fully naked, cock hard and leaking between his legs, the head so flushed with blood that it looks painful, and Derek glances at Stiles’ face, nostrils flared with _want-_

He has to push Stiles’ legs up, push him further onto the covers, so his twitching hole is at eye level, shining with Derek’s spit still, clenching and flushed pink, like he’s embarrassed-

He tears open the lube (ignoring the sheer amount that he spills on the sheet, because can he just do one thing right, please?) and coats his fingers in it, and because he knows that he won’t otherwise, has Stiles put a condom on him, slick it up-

Derek has to hold his breath at that point, because otherwise there would be some unfortunate ejaculation-

Derek spreads his legs (wider than they already are) and circles a finger around his rim, feeling the shiver against him, sucking the moan into his mouth. Stiles rolls his hips, already trying to get those fingers in him. He’s never silent, but he’s not exactly coherent, voice high-pitched and cracking-

Slicking them with lube, he slips a finger in and crooks it, searching for his prostate.  

He teases him, running his finger across his prostate, gently massaging, until Stiles pushes him back, easing himself into his lap, like they’d planned this, but Derek is so fine with this position. He can see Stiles’ flushed, heaving chest from this position, see his bottom lip as he sucks it in-

Derek has to hold back a full blown moan when Stiles eases himself onto Derek’s dick, hands pressed hot against Derek’s stomach. His hips are teasingly still for a minute, then rolling minutely. Derek’s having difficulty not moving. He’s fucking Stiles, and it’s too good. He can’t hold still.

He bucks and groans out loud, too loud, but Stiles responds with a moan. And suddenly they’re moving, Stiles is riding Derek, and he’s pulling Stiles down with every thrust, hands grasping Stiles’ thighs, his ass-

Stiles reseats Derek’s cock with every roll of his hips, a combined rhythm that’s natural, like they’ve been doing this for years. It’s perfect, the way they move together-

Stiles clenches tight when Derek changes his thrusts, slightly, “Oh God, there, Derek. Right there, Jesus. Yeah-”

He breathes out a shaky laugh, and he kisses any of Stiles that he can reach, pleased that he doesn’t have to hide his affections, that he can display them. That they will be welcomed.

 He holds himself so still that he’s afraid he’s going to pull something, but that doesn’t deter Stiles. Nope, instead he fucks himself on Derek’s cock, hips rolling restlessly, as he pants for Derek to come inside him, like he’s wanted to for so long. His words run together, almost meaningless in pleasure, incoherent: pleaseDerek, likethat, moreGodplease and yesoh _yes_ -

Stiles grinds down on him, making Derek realise how deep he is; Stiles is fucking impaled on his cock-

Derek’s hips start to lose their pace at that thought, and he ruts up into Stiles again and again, mindless with pleasure. His hand reaches up for Stiles’ cock, and he’s circling it, movements so very _gentle_ , as maddening to Derek as he can hear they are for Stiles, but then he scrapes along that bundle of nerves inside Stiles, and Stiles shouts out, clamping down on Derek so _tight-_

Stiles is spilling over Derek, filling Derek’s nostrils with his scent, and it’s that and the muscles clenching around his cock that make him come, filling Stiles up with it, fucking him through both of their aftershocks until Stiles is whimpering weakly as he pulls himself out as gently as he knows how. He ties off the condom and tosses it in the vague direction of the bin.

He sets his mouth on Stiles’ shoulder, just mouthing at the muscles there, tasting at the sweat-salt, fresh taste of him.

Stiles comes back to the land of the living before Derek does, and they pant in each others’ faces for a few minutes, before they smile at each other, small and secret.

They’re wrapped around each other, before Stiles hops out of bed to Derek’s bathroom, producing a stray washcloth from somewhere, and he shivers as he cleans them both up.

He collapses back on the bed.

“Okay, we rock. Yay us. We’ve just discovered that we have mind blowing sex. Yay.” Stiles says slowly, still sounding a little out of it.

“You didn’t know this before,” Derek says, poking Stiles with a finger. It should sound like a question, but he’s so sleepy. He’s not getting old, he’s not. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Totally did, but we’re going to be doing this a lot.” Stiles says. “We should have been doing this for ages, years in fact. And now we’ve got enough condoms to last us that long.”

“We may fuck ourselves into an early grave yet,” Stiles says. “That okay with you?”

*****

Turns out it is more than okay with Derek when Stiles hooks an arm around his leg, displaying him blatantly, and he feels obscenely empty for a minute before Stiles is push, shoving into him and fucking him _open._

He howls as he comes, long and drawn out, after Stiles has rutted methodically into his prostate for what’s felt like hours, torturous, blissful hours, but that tapers off as Stiles sucks at his nipples, sucking hickeys that fade like drying ink, whimpering when Stiles pulls out of him.

He lazily howls, unable not to, as Stiles brings himself off over Derek’s chest, spattering come as far as the eye can see (God, he’s never going to be able to watch Lion King ever again) and Derek languidly rubs it into his skin.

They poke and mutter at each other for a few minutes.

“I love you,” Derek says shyly, because he’s said it before, but he can’t remember saying it recently, and that feels wrong to him.

“I know.” Stiles says, which makes Derek roll his eyes.

“I would pay to see you in a bikini,” Derek mutters.

“Don’t need to pay, babe, I’m _yours_ remember? Means you don’t have to pay, if you didn’t know.  Benefits of dating me instead of a hooker.” Stiles says, smiling good-naturedly, patting Derek’s arm.

“If I give you money, will you shut up?” Derek says petulantly.

“You love it when I talk,” Stiles says indignantly.

“Not when you talk shit,” Derek tells him, and Stiles rolls his eyes, he can feel it.

“Didn’t say anything about human waste, Der-bear,” Stiles says sweetly. Derek groans. Stiles can be such a pain in the ass; _heh,_ both literally and metaphorically.

But they’re each others’ pain in the ass.

*****

Derek blinks his eyes open, wondering why he’s suddenly bombarded with scents from the pack.

He shakes Stiles awake and they back into the sheets, withering at the hairy eyeball the rest of the pack are giving them, the looks they are bearing down on them.

Fuck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is just gratuitous porn, with minimal plot. I apologise for this, but they both needed this, the characters, that is. I always want to hug Derek and he deserves nice things so tadah! He got a nice thing. Yay.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles goes off to college (cue joyous weeping).

 

 

So the inspiration for Stiles suit is [here](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mbfj6xmAfw1r25hopo1_500.png)

Because Dylan is flawless and perfect. As is Hoechlin. My babies. 

* * *

 

The pack is unimpressed.

To say the least.

They sit Derek and Stiles down on the couch and give them the hairy eyeball for a further five minutes. Danny looks uninterested, but smiles blandly at them once they’re seated on the cream couch.

Scott’s not there, which Derek’s kind of pleased about, but less pleased about the fact that he’s out with Allison. On a friends not date. Which makes absolutely no sense. He’s sending Isaac half an hour updates, and so far, all’s going well excluding the fact that he’s spewed ice cream all over her while laughing.

Lydia’s not painting her nails, which Derek takes as a bad sign; she’s leaning against the back wall, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. So the remaining betas: Boyd, Erica and Isaac, appear to be the ones doing the cross-examining today. Boyd’s clutching a small flashlight for ‘emphasis’, apparently.

Derek mutters something about the Alphas running the pack.

Stiles responds with, “We had this coming. We only have ourselves to blame.”

“Stiles, now’s not the time to be quoting _Chicago._ ”

“It’s always the time to quote _Chicago._ But if we hold power just to ourselves, then we’re limiting our strength aren’t we? They’re our pack, but we’re their leaders, ba-Derek.”

Derek huffs a little, but doesn’t challenge him. He knows he’s right. There’s a sentence he never thought he’d think.

“Not the point, Bruce,” Erica says pleasantly.  “You’ve done well, with the Alpha thing. Messed up later than I thought you would. I lost money on _that_ bet. But why the secrecy?  We’ve got money riding on this.”

“You’ve bet on us?” Derek asks. He’s not impressed.

Erica withers a little under his gaze. “Not a lot. But still, fifty bucks is fifty bucks.”

“On?” Stiles asks.

“When you’d get together,” Boyd says. He looks uncomfortable. “Erica’s idea.”

“Danny and Isaac aren’t exactly blameless,” Erica protests.

Derek wonders if he can kill all his betas, or whether Stiles would mind.

“We were just invested in our Alpha getting…some,” Erica says, flushing pink. Boyd’s smirking. “We couldn’t get a rough idea of when you hooked-”

“No. Or as our friends the Spaniards would say, _no_ chance,” Stiles says firmly shaking his head. “Not going to happen.”

Erica pouts.

“You’ve gotten off track,” Isaac points out.

“Right,” Erica says, frowning slightly. “So, obviously, we wouldn’t mind if you guys were slapping each other’s lizards. Just wished you would have told us so I didn’t have to walk in and smell precome everywhere.”

“Which, by the way, was not cool, even I could smell it,” Danny says, glancing up from his phone.

Stiles flushes red and it’s the point at which Derek remembers that he’s naked save for the bed sheet he wears like a toga. Derek’s having _Sherlock_ flashbacks.

 “Okay, we get your point. No more sexytimez while you’re near and or likely to walk in on us.” Stiles says. “But, you guys don’t tell Scott. Or my dad.”

Isaac frowns, and Erica looks unimpressed.

“Scott’s gonna freak,” Stiles explains, with one quick look at Derek. “And I’m not eighteen yet. So, sexytimez could lead to accusations of statutory rape and Derek could get shot in the ass again. Which I don’t want. I’m the only one that gets to make him limp.”

The others groan in disgust.

“Too much information, Stiles, boundaries.” Danny points out. “I’m late for doing something that isn’t as awkward as this. So, helping Scott’s mom give old people enemas. Anyone else?”

Boyd nods and follows Danny out the house. Erica hugs Derek and Stiles before following, and Stiles almost swallows his tongue when Isaac does the same. Lydia just stands, observing them, unmoving.

“You, be careful with him,” she says to Derek, and he growls. He’s working on his dislike, but it’s still there.

Stiles buries his face in his hands.

“I’M NOT MADE OF GLASS.” He points out, very reasonably.

“Don’t hurt him,” she says gently, and follows the others.

“Well that could have gone worse. You could have got _shot_.” Stiles says, still muffled by his hands.

“Fucking arrogant assholes,” Derek growls. “Who do they think they are, Lucifer? Great big bags of dicks.”

“Isaac’s gonna tell Scott, I can sense it. Kinda. Our bromances may have swapped, but Scott’s my bud. Shit. Isaac and Danny are totally boning, aren’t they?”

“Why would I hurt you?”

“Lydia totally gay friended me. I’m not even out and I’m a gay best friend- well, that’s Danny, actually- but I’m her gay friend. I swear to god if she tries to take me shopping-”

“I wouldn’t- couldn’t hurt you-”

“I’m taking that fifty bucks and taking us to Applebees-”

“Stiles-” Derek says, turning resignedly to his mate. Stiles grins and pulls him into a kiss, a really good one, all teeth and emotion and soothing tongue to take away the sharpness.

“We have the worst pack,” Stiles says, voice totally fond.

“Shut up,” Derek groans. “I’d rather you didn’t bring up pack when I’m about to –”

“Fuck my brains out?” Stiles offers, and his grin turns predatory.

“I have no…problems with that,” Derek struggles to get out. Electricity fizzles through his veins, leaving him aching, heart beat making him feel faintly dizzy. He’s panting.

He’s abruptly hard, even though he had Stiles only a few hours ago. But now, he’s aching for his touch, burning for it, so when he grabs Stiles and drags him upstairs, he’s very fast.

It hits Derek that he can use his speed then, because they’re both werewolves, one of a kind, and he has to kiss Stiles then, has to. Because he doesn’t have to worry about breaking him (although he knows that he always will) and he can be himself.

So Derek shoves his face into Stiles neck when Stiles shoves his hand down Derek’s pants. Stiles’ lips are swollen red from kissing and he grips Derek through his boxers, while Derek short-circuits. Stiles’ clever fingers undo his trousers and pull out his erection, stroking him until he’s leaking.

Derek abruptly realises that he’s going to cream himself if Stiles doesn’t stop, and he really wants to be inside Stiles, ASAP.

He tells this to Stiles, and he groans, and falls back on their bed.

Derek shucks off his sweatpants while Stiles struggles to get out of his sheet. Not. Derek stares at him for a moment, disbelieving that this glorious creature is in fact his.

“C’mon Derek,” Stiles whines, hand curled around a tube of lube that seems to have appeared from the nearest Room of Requirement, other hand fisting his cock.

Derek climbs over him, stealing the tube and slicking up his fingers. Stiles pulls his knees to his chest, displaying his hole obscenely, flushing all the way to his groin. He strokes his finger tenderly around the rim, teasing him until Stiles is shivering, until he's nudging his hips downwards into it. Then he lets his index finger search out his prostate. He adds a second finger in slowly, carefully, and soon, he has Stiles gripping his shoulders tightly and moaning so perfectly-

Derek pumps them in at a steady pace, but Stiles is too far gonefor that, his body thrusting with force and intent against the pumping fingers. He brings one palm up against Stiles’ stomach, at first in an attempt to get the other to hold still, but in seconds Derek is distracted by the trail of coarse hair drifting from Stiles’ naval downwards, because it's so distracting. He drops down to lick, suck, around Stiles’ bellybutton, nipping at the soft flesh, because it feels so _right and he tastes so good-_  

He gets a shiver in response and he grins, satisfied with how _sensitive_ Stiles is. He brings a third finger around the edges of Stiles’ rim, edging slowly into his entrance, while he begins to kiss lovingly at his hips- 

Stiles moans, body trembling with the desire to grind down and flail, really. His hand trails down, gripping at Derek’s hair in a good way, because he's not being weak but he's not ripping out Derek's hair, either, so bonus, and Derek can’t help but bite down a little on the skin before him. “Babe, come  _on_!” He grins into Stiles’ skin, because he’s so damn bossy, and he drops one last kiss before leaning back. 

He puts the condom on quickly and inches forward, both hands pushing Stiles’ legs wide and apart from the underside of his knees. He huffs out a pleased sigh as he enters Stiles, the impossible heat and tightness around him stunning him momentarily, because he’s so warm and tight and perfect it hurts Derek to breathe.  "You're perfect." he breathes out into Stiles’ shoulder, bending Stiles beautifully back into the bed- 

Stiles responds with a slightly needy moan, shifting his hips.

Derek responds with a soothing sound which gives way into a fairly slutty sounding gasp.

He breathes in quickly, exhaling air in order to counteract the spinning sensation in his body, the one that he always gets at the feeling of being in Stiles, like this, his walls contracting so perfectly around Derek, rippling contractions that are as frustrating as they are good. His hips rock minutely, so gently, because this is Stiles and he's not going to be a selfish dick and hurt him-

Stiles keeps wincing a little, and Derek huffs out a breath because he's not going to last must longer, and Stiles is more important than he is. Besides, Derek's totally overjoyed when Stiles comes first, so he tries to angle himself differently, lets his hand stroke reverently at Stiles' shaking arm. He slides the other hand farther up Stiles’ thigh, his own knees bent and taking most of the teen’s lower body weight.

He thrusts forward experimentally, hoping to find Stiles’ prostate, when Stiles clenches down so hard on he sees planets and baby Castiels- 

“Fuck,” he mutters, rhythm momentarily interrupted. Stiles claws at his shoulders, smirking in satisfaction like the arrogant little shit he isn't. 

“Do that  _again_ , babe,” he demands, clinging to Derek. 

He grins softly, feeling successful at having caused the blissed-out expression on Stiles’ face, the slow smile that doesn't have anything to do with sex. He starts thrusting again, hips canting and chest heaving fractionally with restraint, sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. Two hundred push ups get him sweating, but a few minutes with Stiles, the thick scent of him, the movements he makes, the sounds, it gets to Derek _immediately_. It doesn’t take long for Stiles to bring up a leg around Derek, heel digging into his lower back, voice cracking as he says, “ _Harder_ , please, _Derek!_ ”

So does as he's begged, and picks up speed, keeping his hips at the angle Stiles likes, so he brushes against Stiles' prostate every time, because he wants him to feel so good-

He sits upright and trails his free hand across Stiles’ chest, memorising moles and clean, perfect skin, his blunt nails leaving small red lines of disturbed skin in their wake. Stiles arches into his touch, his own fingers digging into arms and shoulders with force, mostly human, though his eyes flash with colour- 

Derek bends his head down, sucking at the same spots his hand touched, wanting to leave his mark on Stiles, wanting to let everyone know this person chose  _him_ , Derek, and no one else. Even though the marks won’t stay, he pretends to himself that they can stay. It comforts Burt. 

Stiles uses this as an opportunity to cling to Derek's broad, sweaty shoulders, arms wound tight around his neck in an effort gain leverage and fuck back down against Derek- 

“Oh Holy God.” Stiles is groaning and gasping in turns, unable to do much but arch his back and grind against him, back arched so sharply it looks painful-

Stiles comes like that, back bent towards him and eyes blown open, not a hand laid on his cock, snarl running through his teeth, eyes glinting at Derek.

And Derek, well, he can’t help the pleased grin that marks his face, but it’s quickly wiped away when Stiles starts clenching down on him, oversensitive from his orgasm, still making those pitiful little moans, which make Derek come, long and hard and _shuddering_  with a snarl that he buries in Stiles' sweaty nape, where his scent is most concentrated, so he _licks_ at it and _kisses_ at the skin, with the affection that seems to take him over and drag him under-

The room spins around them, irrelevant, when Derek pulls out with his usual post-coital gentleness and turns him around. He kisses Stiles, lovingly, gently, before collapsing back on their thoroughly mussed bed. Now that sexytimez are over, Derek wants sleepytimez, it has to be said. 

They lay in silence for a few minutes before Stiles talks to Derek, while he mumbles in response. Something. Stiles laughs and leans over and kisses Derek on the lips, sweet and chaste.  He's too tired to kiss back, so he just lies there and lets Stiles kiss into his mouth, across his throat, his ears.

He’s surprised how strong the instinct to ask Stiles to marry him suddenly is. How hard he has to force it down, because Stiles is young, and he still could leave Derek, and he could do better than Derek, and it’s really not the time. But it’s there.

"Sleep," Derek yawns, finally, when Stiles stops licking Derek’s neck and spoons behind Derek, his sticky chest curved around Derek’s back. They both need a shower, but Derek never ever wants to leave the bed again. Outside world, what outside world?

Derek rumbles, a prolonged, pleased growl of satisfaction, and tucks Stiles closer to him as they drift off to sleep.

Stiles leaves for school two hours later, muttering about needing to pick up the pups (he means betas, he’s such a pack manager) and being back after school.

*****

The third week in March, Stiles is weirdly quiet and sensitive, even with Derek, and it occurs to Derek that this is when his mom died, nine years ago. So Stiles cuts school and Derek brings him flowers to take to his mom’s grave. They hold hands by the grave and Stiles talks to his mom’s headstone for three hours about the Pack, his dad, Derek, until they’re both freezing. For the second week in October, the tenth anniversary of the fire, Derek is surrounded by Stiles; he’s there when he goes to bed, when he wakes up, when he gets out of work, Stiles is there. It should irritate him, he knows, but he needs this closeness, needs his mate’s presence to show him that he has healed, and he’s honouring his family, what they would have wanted, with moving on, with the new Pack and Stiles, because he’s happy. He feels wracked with guilt to say it, but he is. And Stiles tells him that it’s not a bad thing to be happy, that it’s okay, and makes love to him afterwards to almost prove this. Derek lies in Stiles’ embrace and knows that he’s going to be okay.

They fall into a pattern. Derek goes to work, comes home at around six to Stiles studying in the kitchen and makes them dinner. They’ll chatter, or Stiles will mock lightly (lovingly, he says) and they bicker about everything (even broccoli, because apparently you shouldn’t eat something that looks like Kermit and a tree had a child). Sometimes they’re accompanied by Scott and Isaac, but more often than not, it’s just the two of them. He’ll drop Stiles off at home just after nine and usually climbs in through Stiles’ window.  

Unless it’s Wednesday or Friday then he’s usually greeted not by Stiles’ greeting shout, but the snickers of the entire pack as they play apple baseball or Cluedo or Jenga or some game that’s not meant for a bunch of seventeen and almost eighteen year olds (no, seriously, Boyd had broken a window with a home run and Erica had him apologise to Stiles and Derek).

They’ll sometimes manage to fit in a round of orgasms all round, but it’s difficult when school and lacrosse seem to be stressing Stiles out more than ever and the Sheriff’s not on the night shift.

Aside from the full moon. That’s when, after they’ve checked up on the pack, because none of them need to be tied up anymore, they’ve all found and accepted their anchors. That, however, means that they can succumb to some of their more, er, baser instincts, and have a jolly good time (Stiles’ words). Basically, they fuck as much as they want to, for as long as they want to, as many times as they want to, in several different positions. Seven times over.

It’s great and beautiful and kind of painful and so damn _good_.

They fuck each other even after they’ve both come, Derek usually keeps fucking Stiles until he’s hard again, until they’re both sore and broken by it. They snarl at each other, comforting, garbled words, urging the other on, urging the other not to stop. Derek will bury himself inside Stiles ass, because it’s always been so warm inside his mate, so warm and tight and accommodating that it feels like he was meant for this- to have Stiles, this was all his life was leading up to.  He has Stiles dick in his ass, in his mouth as much as he can, because he loves Stiles’ dick. It’s one of his favourite things about Stiles, excluding his lips, those soft, lush lips, with that _tongue_ that’s hotter than hell and sweeter than his smile. They’ll be coated in each other’s scent, the other’s come because they’ll shoot all over each other, and for days afterwards they’ll ache (werewolf healing aside). Derek’s ass will feel empty and ache with it, he’ll throb in pain because Stiles has done him so good and _right,_ and they’ll be covered in small bruises that heal instantly. They’ll pant for each other and just enjoy the fact that there’s no distance between them.

Derek loves what they have, together, and he thanks whatever is up there (he doesn’t believe in God, but he believes in something) that he gets to have Stiles in his life.

*****

“I can’t wait,” Stiles complains under a cushion. He’s irritated his dad so much that he said that he could stay at Derek’s Thursday _and_ Friday this week, which Derek’s still gloating over. He stops when he notes how miserable Stiles is.  

“To discover whether Oswin will be better than Amy?” Derek wonders, trying to pay attention to the baseball, but it’s not like the Yankees or the Mets are even playing; that had been a wired and dangerous week, the house prickling with tension, the pack divided, with Stiles, Erica, Isaac and Scott rooting for the Mets, while Derek, Danny, Boyd (Lydia didn’t care, she told them, actually using the third person, but she turned up anyway) supported the Yankees. The Yankees won, of course, and Stiles sulked aggressively for five hours before jumping Derek in the shower the next morning and giving him the messiest, most beautiful hand job that had ever occurred. Stiles congratulates himself on things like this, and when Derek tells him to shut up, Stiles just smirks.

“Don’t even go there, babe. I meant about college.”

Derek likes that Stiles calls him babe, when he’s sleepy, or in the morning, or during sex or just after, or when he’s stressed. His mom used to call him that and it reminds him of her, in a good way. Like when Stiles kisses his tattoo during sex (because apparently he has a thing for it) it makes Derek think that Stiles is honouring her.

“You know I don’t like Amy, though. And which are you applying to, again? You keep changing your mind.” Derek says, reasonably, annoyed at himself when his question furrows Stiles’ brow further.

“I’ve narrowed it down to Berkeley, Stanford, Harvard, Columbia and Princeton.” Stiles says warily. “I want Stanford so bad, but let’s get real, I’m not going to get in there. Let’s be honest, I don’t know about any of them-” Stiles sighs, running a hand through his still damp hair. Apparently even a blow in the shower can’t calm him down.

“Shut up,” Derek says firmly. “Just- shut up, you idiot.”

“My point exactly.”

“No, I meant that you’re good for all those colleges. You know you fit the entry requirements, and you’re doing early admission, right?” Derek says, running a hand through his hair. He feels like he’s repeated this a lot in the past few months, as Stiles had written his essays. He’s not feeling confident, Derek knows, but he also knows that Stiles will get into any college he wants, because he’s set his mind to it.

“Yeah,” Stiles rolls his eyes, like it’s a technicality, instead of a totally valid point. Derek huffs and drags Stiles into his arms, sniffing at his temple. Stiles closes any space between them and hums a vaguely contented sound.

“Let me take you out to dinner,” Derek says, gently, trying to distract Stiles. There’s no point sitting at home now, he’s sent off his application. All they can do now is _wait_ ; all Derek can do is distract Stiles for the next four months, something he’s proud to say that he’s good at. “You can see me in a suit and take it off.”He doesn’t add the important part where he just wants to see Stiles in a suit. And take him out of it.

Stiles has barely gotten into the pants before Derek pulls him out of them, and all but surges him into the wall, hard against his thigh, all from Stiles in a suit.

 So they’re forty five minutes late for their reservation.

*****

Derek knows that Stiles has gotten into all of the colleges that he’s applied to, because, well, he’s Stiles and he is irritatingly smart and any college would be stupid not to take him.

That’s why he’s not surprised when Stiles bursts into the Hale house one day after school (although he’s a little surprised to see Stiles, he was supposed to have lacrosse practice) clutching a fan of envelopes, all too thick to be anything but acceptances. He counts them, and yes, Stiles has five acceptances from Ivy Leagues.

He’s so full of pride it takes a minute for Derek to speak.

“Victory sex?” Derek says, or tries to say in a sexy voice, but he’s not great at flirting with Stiles. Not at appropriate times, at least.

Stiles blinks before launching himself into Derek’s lap.

*****

“Well, seeing as I got into Stanford, looks like we’re moving to Palo Alto,” Stiles pants afterwards, mostly to himself while Derek blinks.

“We’re?” He asks, and for a second, total fear flashes across Stiles’ face.

“Yes?” Stiles says, voice vulnerable. “I sort of thought we’d move in together, an apartment so I don’t have to share a dorm room? Because of the whole being an only child and hating to share things, and werewolf thing, and us, it would just be…I dunno. Easier? Better? Both. Both is good. Can you say something now, because _I’m_ scared I’ve scared _you_. Shit.”

Derek smile curves into some great monstrous thing, and suddenly he’s got Stiles in his lap, pressed against him, all five feet eleven of his gorgeous being which Derek is stupidly in love with.

“I’ve always wanted to open up my own body shop,” Derek grins against Stiles mouth. Stiles slips his tongue into Derek’s mouth, and it’s law, he has to stay this close. That’s all Derek wants.

“Not the make-up shop, I assume,” Stiles says.

“No. you assume wrong. If Jeremy Renner could do it, so can I.” Derek says, deadpan.

“Derek, stop being a smartass.”

“Pot, calling kettle. Yeah, you’re black.”

“No need for racism,” Stiles pouts.

“I’m opening up a garage, just outside Palo Alto. For all those dumbass students who should get their cars fixed or get a new car but won’t out of principle or lack of money; a musical.”

Stiles huffs at the poorly veiled insult. “Aside from the douchey bit, yeah, it’s a great idea. I’ve seen you in a vest top. You’ll get more than stupid students.”

“Yeah, I’ve got you, haven’t I?” Derek points out. “So I’ve got an idiot savant.”

Stiles may or may not flick Derek on the nose like the actual puppy he is.

*****

Thomas retires just before graduation, and as expected (as Stiles expected) leaves the Body shop to Derek. Derek’s a little stunned, and worries for a second how he can go to Palo Alto with Stiles if he already has a shop in Beacon Hills.

He worries for three days straight, and he knows Stiles does too (come on, Stiles was the first person he told, the only person he wanted to tell) before coming up with the solution in the shower one evening after work.

He can hear Stiles singing to the radio downstairs, but all that fades out.

He’s already got Boyd working at the Body shop, because the kid is good, a fast learner and impossibly strong. He’s young but he knows what he wants in life; to work with cars and Erica. The other guys at the shop are nice enough, Derek knows, but he doesn’t trust them the way he almost trusts Boyd.

So he makes Boyd manager of the Beacon Hills Body Shop.

Then he buys the shop in Palo Alto off a guy who’s also about to retire, which makes him the owner of two Auto-Shops. Stiles buys him a cake from _Cars_ when they find out they get the second shop, and invites around the Pack and his dad. They celebrate for Derek, and he’s awed by this. Stiles points out to him later that they all love him, and he blinks.

He’s still processing.

The fact that Stiles’ dad took it in his stride that they’re going to move in (well, move in more than they are together now) together after graduation, still shocks Derek. Stiles says that his dad told him that he thinks that Stiles focuses more when Derek’s there, and he can count on Derek to keep Stiles in line and to keep him safe. Derek’s shocked by this, but pleased, and so’s Stiles.

He’s basically got royal blessing to live with Stiles.

*****

Stiles graduates in the summer of 2013, valedictorian.

Lydia’s Salvedictorian and she’s unimpressed. Sophomore year was a major dent in her record, though, and she does accept this. Stiles doesn’t gloat.

Derek thinks he gloats enough for both of them.

Though he’s unsure when academics, even Stiles’, became so important to him.

Derek can hear that Stiles is freaking out back stage, so he casts his voice, and his feelings, over the distance. He’s proud that he can say this, now when he needs to, and here’s the benefit of stewing in his feelings for Stiles for years, he’s come to accept things and appreciate them in new ways, so he knows how important what he’s about to say is.

“You are going to go out there and give the Valedictorian speech like no one else has ever given that speech,” he mutters, aware that he looks like a nut. “Because you are Stiles, and you do everything perfectly, and I’m probably going to always think that you are perfect. My fault. You are perfect to me, always have been, always will be. I’m yours, Stiles, and you’re mine. I’ll be here, and I’ll find you straight away, afterwards. If you want.”

He hears Stiles laugh lightly, can practically see the quirk of his lips, feel the roll of his eyes, because he secretly loves that Derek is so corny. “Love you too, babe.”

Derek blinks and smiles, tightening his grip on the camera as the ceremony begins.

He kind of fades out for the first half of the ceremony, which mostly involves teachers talking, and Derek wincing, because why did he think this was a good idea? Laura had been on the brink of graduation when the fire had happened, and Derek never graduated high school. Not here, at least, he got his GED online afterwards, at Laura’s insistence, but it means that he missed this ceremony. Which he’s kind of glad for.

Although, he perks up when Stiles saunters on stage, like he owns it, grinning at the crowd. He shakes the last speakers hand, the Harris guy, who looks like he’s got a bad taste in his mouth. Derek smirks and mentally punches the air like rocky.  

Stiles’ speech is great, even Derek who hates anything involving over twelve people, can admit that this is a high quality speech and now it’s a high quality event. He’s funny with the right touch of sombre, and he doesn’t sound overly enthusiastic, but like he means every word. Derek likes this.

His hands are only shaking minutely as they hold the camera, but that’s not his fault, it’s not his fear. Well. Not all of his fear.

He stands up and claps, fully aware that only he, the Sheriff and Melissa are standing up, but he’ll take it, because he’s full of pride.  Where’s pride rock when you need it.

He wants to clap so badly when the Pack gets their diplomas.

He kind of smiles, though, so that’s enough.

He bets his face is priceless when Stiles crosses the stage. It’s enough to make John and Melissa chuckle. He isn’t tearing up, he’s not. Simple as that.

Stiles all but skips across the stage when he gets his, pausing to grin at his little cheerleaders in the audience and the pack, who’s going crazy, whooping and stomping and whistling like crazy. The Sheriff is clapping like a lunatic.

It all fades into white noise, however, when Stiles heads for him as soon as it’s finished, and Derek’s proud to say that he is the first one to hug the graduate. Stiles’ arms are tight around his neck, unrelenting, and Derek’s put down the camera so his hands are curled at the back of Stiles’ shirt, face buried in the side of his neck, just breathing deeply, clutching tightly. Then the Sheriff hauls him away and he’s hugged not once, but twice, before he’s passed off to Melissa and the rest of the Pack.

Scott’s next, and he and Stiles hold each other like the brothers they are, messing with the others hair, ruffling it. His feet leave the ground a little when Isaac hugs him, but he’s still grinning, even after Boyd crushes him with his arms. Erica squeezes the life out of him, making Lydia and Danny look demure with their human hugs.

Stiles is flushed, and laughing by the time they’re done.

The pack dissipates for their parents until it’s only Sheriff, Melissa, Scott, Isaac, Stiles and Derek left.  

They go out for pizza after that, the six of them, and it’s so awkward even Stiles looks frightened.

Derek drives Stiles and Isaac to the restaurant, leaving Scott at the mercy of his mom and the Sheriff in the car. Derek doesn’t even want to think about how awkward that conversation was. The pizza’s good enough, but the Sheriff keeps frowning at Derek, which kind of ruins the whole meal.

He knows that Stiles hasn’t informed the Sheriff that they’ve taken their relationship to another level – because why would he, for one, talking about sex with parents will never not be creepy and two, Stiles was underage until recently.

So Derek’s on his tiptoes for the entire meal and even does the decent thing and says he’ll drop of the Pack back at their respective homes, because both Stiles’ dad and Scott’s mom have to go off to work. Melissa smiles at him with wary eyes, and Derek knows she’s still embarrassed by The Kitchen Incident of 2011.

Once Derek drops Scott and Isaac off- Scott at the Argents, Isaac at the Mahealani’s (which is news to Derek although Stiles smiles knowingly, looking a little evil)- he takes Stiles to the most empty back road that he can think of, so that they can have celebratory sex.  So they fuck in the backseat of the Jeep, in the tight and cramped space. It's something they've done before, but that doesn't retract from Derek's exhilaration to get his scent all over Stiles' car.

Stiles rides him hard, rolling his hips against Derek's pelvis, hard enough to bruise, fucking himself on Derek's cock. 

Derek is more than content just to watch, the beautiful shine of Stiles' sweaty skin, the way his mouth drops open, the way he just _keens_ Derek's name. Derek cries out in pleasure as Stiles clamps down on his cock, seconds after he's spurted, sticky hot, on Derek. 

It only takes a few more thrusts in that hot, tight space until Derek shoots, hot and deep in Stiles. It makes Stiles whine, a little, the feel of Derek dripping out of him. Derek likes it too. He likes it so much. 

Stiles drops down, still gasping for breath, and curls up against Derek, just because he's always liked the feel of Derek pressed against him too much. Derek flexes all the muscles in his body after he pulls out, feeling like he's going to ache, but it'll be a good ache. After that, he hooks an arm around Stiles' shoulder, desiring no space between them.

Derek has his fingers against Stiles' wrist and he presses them against his pulse, to feel the beat of his heart echo through Derek's fingertips, his entire body. That's all there is to hear, the thud of their combined hearbeats until there's a worrying sound of branches snapping outside the Jeep, extremely close, a familiar cursing breath echoing through the night. Derek forces back his claws, because there's nothing to protect Stiles from. 

They both recognise the scent together, sitting bolt upright. They’re both still panting.

“Shit,” Stiles hisses. He reaches for his boxers, tucked into the drivers seat, throwing Derek’s jeans at him. Derek freezes for an instant before tugging on his jeans with the kind of speed that’s not for these kinds of situations. Stiles yanks on his chinos, swearing when he catches himself, but their shirts are on the dashboard. Derek blames Stiles for this, he’d basically thrown off Derek’s shirt with the kind of dramatic flair that makes Derek think he belongs in show business.

There’s a resigned knock on the window and Derek undoes it at Stiles’ urge.

The sheriff glares at them, massaging a headache at his temples. He’s clenching his jaw and Derek’s trying to look at anything but his face. _I HAVEN’T BEEN FUCKING YOUR SON. I HAVEN’T BEEN FUCKING YOUR SON._

“Get out of the car, Hale,” he says, irritated. Derek winces at the use of his last name.

Derek gets handcuffs slapped on him before he’s put in the back of the Sheriff’s car. His sweaty skin sticks to the leather of the backseat, and he notes the inscription of Stiles’ initials- G.S- on the ceiling, possibly in marker pen.

“You said that nothing was going on,” John says, voice tight.

“Well, that _was_ technically a white lie,” Stiles struggles. He sounds sheepish.

“Then what’s the difference between a white lie and a lie, son?”

“One wears crocs?”

“Stiles.” His name is synonymous to John stating: _explain._

“Dad, I love him,” Stiles says, and points out, very reasonably, “I’m eighteen. Nothing we were doing was illegal. Well, aside from the public nudity, but we were in his car?”

“This role is elected, Stiles,” Sheriff hisses. “My son can’t have sex in public.”

“But it’s not just sex! Dad, it’s great, loving sex in public?” Stiles tries for humour and it falls flat.

So Stiles has another set of handcuffs put on him, and they’re driven down to the station. They’re not booked in, but sit in the only cell (thankfully empty) for the night.

So that’s how they spend graduation night.

 

So news of their relationship spreads around town, after this affair. Derek gets discounts at the local diner when he picks up Stiles’ favourite curly fries one Sunday. He’s a little taken aback, because generally people in town avoid him like he has the black plague, and yet here’s a woman named ‘Barb’ (is that even a name) charging him three dollars for ten dollars worth of food.

She tells him to send Stiles her love and he backs out of the diner, certain that everyone has gone certifiably nuts.

Stiles laughs himself hoarse when Derek gets home and tells him about it.

A checkout kid at the local grocery store leads him to a stash of fresh fish that Stiles apparently likes, giving him sassy eyebrows until Derek picks up several fish. He gives the kid a dark look and grumbles at him while he serves Derek, but the kid gives him a discount and tells him to tell Stiles ‘heads up’.

He complains to Stiles that he’s not an owl when he gets in. Stiles makes a soothing sound and puts his arms around Derek, rubbing his face against Derek’s Stark _Game of Thrones_ shirt (a joke present from Stiles on their last month’s anniversary, while Derek overspent this time, making Stiles sign the deeds for half of the house and land; so he gave him half of property worth over twenty million dollars). 

The next time, in the stationary store picking up paper for the shop’s bills, he’s shown Stiles’ favourite pens, and Derek tells himself that he loves the way Stiles bites his pens, that’s why he spends twenty dollars more than he intended on stationary.

Which is why they’re both really surprised when Scott storms in on them one Thursday, during a date; Scott’s lucky that he turned up twenty minutes later, or he would have walked in on Stiles giving Derek a pretty impressive, A-grade (Stiles’ words) blow job.

Stiles sits bolt upright, dragging Derek’s arms up with him. He clenches at Derek’s arm, scared.

Scott looks furious.

“Why did I have to hear from Mr Evans that you two are going to get married?” he demands. “Are you kidding me, Stiles? You didn’t even tell me that you two had gotten past sort of dating.”

Stiles opens his mouth to object, maybe, but Scott cuts in.

“It’s not like I would mind, Stiles,” he says tiredly. “I am Mr Supportive.”

“Scott, I thought you knew,” Stiles says honestly, laughing a little. “I talk about Derek like all the time. I make inappropriate jokes about our sex life constantly.”

“Yeah but you always did that,” Scott points out, which makes Stiles flush. Derek raises his eyebrows in surprise. “I just wish I could have heard about it from you.”

“I swear that any life changing news in the future, you will hear about them first.” Stiles says soothingly.

Scott nods, satisfied. He drops down to the couch, snagging the popcorn.

“So, what are we watching Mr and Mrs Stilinski?”

Stiles flushes and tells Scott to shut the hell up, while Derek’s somewhat shocked that they managed to swerve around the Scott shaped potential fiasco.

After that blip, life returns to a semi normal state. Derek is still offered discounts in basically every single shop he goes into, and Stiles is treated similarly; both offered items for the other. Stiles returns home from the grocery store in July, laden down with fifteen tubs of Derek’s favourite gel.

They both agree that if a zombie apocalypse ever occurs, they will be the people to go to. Derek’s pleased that they’ll never have to go shopping again.

*****

Prom.

The very word frightens Derek.

Stiles doesn’t mention it, until his dad buys him a suit.

Then Derek knows that he’s going to have to go and get Stiles a corsage and _dance_ and hold Stiles in a gymnasium surrounded by a bunch of moronic, noisy teenagers. Not to mention the Pack.

*****

Stiles gets home after dinner at the Hale house and is surprised to see his dad fearfully clutching a dry cleaners bag like it’s going to burn him. The TV’s not on, and the beers remain in the fridge. His dad is on serious business. There isn’t any paper-work out, aside from the stuff that was already there this morning, and it’s nothing interesting, just a property dispute gone bad on the other side of the county. 

So his dad is serious, and holding a suit that’s too long to belong to him.

Shit.

“What’s that?” Stiles asks, stomach dropping. After the giant mistake that was the Winter Formal, he hadn’t intended on ever going to a formal school event ever again.

His dad rolls his eyes at his tone and pulls out a scarlet suit, complete with a blue shirt, and Stiles wants to die. Actively. He will jump into a pit full of stakes greased with Wolfsbane.

“Scott said you’d laugh,” John says carefully. “Something about red hoods?”

Stiles sits down and laughs until he cries.

 

Derek’s mouth literally waters when he sees Stiles.

He’s clad in the red suit (Stiles had told him all about it. He’d cuffed Scott on the back of the head out of principle), light blue shirt obscenely tight. The red brings out the flush in Stiles’ cheeks, the fair colour of his skin and the darkness of his hair.

He picks Stiles up at his house in the Camaro, and they pose together (only a semi-seriously) for the Sheriff, who seems to take hundreds of photos, his eyes shining with pride and Stiles and Derek use contacts (although they irritate Derek’s eyes) so their eyes are shining with tears.

They still get their photo taken at the school. Derek forks out fifty dollars for the photos, and he comes to an agreement with Stiles that okay, they’ll frame the photo and it’ll end up on the wall at their new apartment (the word still fills Derek with a shiver of excitement) but Stiles will not add any drawings to Stiles’ face (or draw angels crying and worshipping around Derek, which he’s done before).

They dance together, or Derek tries to move his shoulders simultaneously and prevent Stiles from doing grievous bodily harm to those around them, although the pack seems to have circled in on them like the vultures they are.

He likes that the pack is happy, it comforts him; Erica and Boyd smirk and grin at Stiles and Derek, while Isaac and Danny are making out in the corner of the gym, and Scott and Allison are lost in each other, seemingly back together.

Derek does a double take, because yes, that is Jackson dancing with Lydia, her head against his shoulder, a dreamy expression on her face. Derek blinks.

Jackson smirks and nods at Derek and Stiles. They nod back and continue dancing.

He gets a thank- you- for- being- awesome- tonight blow job in the back of the Camaro once prom finishes, and he revels in the fact that he’s got Stiles to himself for the evening when he tucks them into Derek’s bed at eleven o’clock, cuddling Stiles close.

Stiles grumbles about blast furnaces before even he succumbs to Derek’s warmth, falling asleep in his embrace like he’s been doing for the past year.

*****

Their new apartment is insane, Stiles thinks.

Derek thinks that it’s too expensive for a one bedroom place, but it’s theirs. There’s light everywhere and high ceilings and Stiles can walk to college (saves him car money) so they’re both content. They have a giant bed, king sized, and Derek makes it his mission to have sex in every room, to christen it. Okay, it’s kind of Stiles’ ideas, but Derek doesn’t exactly complain. Because it’s the best idea ever.

Derek’s still glad the Sheriff let him move in with his son after he broke rule number one.

Their shower is really too cramped to share with someone else, and Derek loves this. That means that they have to press close together, without a lick of air between them when they clean up after moving. There’s not a lick of room between their bodies when Derek has Stiles pressed against the shower tiles, spray from the showerhead hitting both of them like pellets of heat that neither of them bother turning off when the warmth becomes too much. He twists away from the torrent of water and wraps his legs around Derek’s waist when they first tumble into the shower through a frantic touch of lips and tangling of tongues, Derek’s erection pressed against Stiles’ hip and only making him more _eager_ for Derek’s touch-

They kiss, lips wet and slippery while the water pours down Derek’s back, and Derek keens low in his throat and finds purchase on Stiles’ hips in response to the urgency of their kiss- 

They pant at each other when Derek takes them both in his slicked fist, the brush of Stiles’ cock against his own providing him with that familiar sensation of leaving his body and ascending to the heavens. Stiles is as receptive as ever, mouth slack with want as he fucks into Derek’s hand, one of his curved around the nape of Derek’s neck, other hand clutching Derek’s free one, hands pressed hard against the tiles-

They shoot almost simultaneously, the growl ripped from Derek, Stiles’ pants and almost pained whimpers filling their apartment as their combined come slides down the drain.

Stiles mewls when Derek licks his hand clean of their mixed come, and he has to kiss Derek after, he just has to.

Stiles struggles to rub Derek’s hair dry with a towel, while Derek pulls on clean boxers. His hair doesn’t need drying like that; it makes it fluffy, chicken fluffy. Stiles’ hair only needs a gentle rub and it’s clean, after he’d just shaved it; actually, Derek helped him to do it with clippers that Laura used to own. She’d always cut their hair.

He kind of wants to enforce the walking around naked part of their moving in together, but even he can admit it’s not reasonable. They still have packing to do. So Derek shucks on a wife beater and some jeans, while Stiles puts on one of Derek’s shirts (because he knows Derek likes seeing his clothes on Stiles, which Stiles does too, but only because Stiles’ shirts are so tight on Derek you can see _everything_ ).

They haul up boxes of their belongings, and werewolf strength is so handy. Stiles is still lazy though. Somehow.

They sit after, surrounded by their belongings on the floor of their apartment, candles everywhere because Derek flipped the fusebox. Their Super’s promised to be over in the morning, but until then, they’re in the dark. The hot, stifling dark.

“How much crap do you own?” Derek pants, not unpleasantly, pulling open another box (of what feels like a trillion) of books. The last box. Derek is a free-elf. It’s possible that moving has ruined his brain. He is basically Mr. Book man, but this is ridiculous.

“Says the guy with weights,” Stiles snaps right behind him, collapsing dramatically onto the plastic sheet covered couch once he’s set down Derek’s weights in their study. Derek rolls his eyes; Stiles is every bit as strong as he is, he’s just being dramatic.

Derek throws him a cushion, which slaps him in the face and makes him grin.

“Your taste in cushions is awesome,” Stiles says, shoving said cushion under his head.

Derek urges him over with a gentle touch and lies down next to Stiles on the couch. Stiles is half-lying across his chest, hand rubbing perfunctory circles into Derek’s leg, while Derek circles his arms around Stiles.  Stiles’ feet stick out from the end of the couch, sneakers splattered with dried mud that he keeps far away from the edge of their new couch, which Derek’s thankful for.

“Your taste in paint is pretty awesome, too,” Derek says, voice almost shy.

“Tardis blue was an inspired choice, wasn’t it?” Stiles grins. Derek bumps his chin against the top of Stiles’ peach fuzz in agreement.

“Really good,” Derek mumbles, taking in the feel of Stiles on top of him, the soft, silky press of his hair against Derek’s cheek.

“Always felt too good on top of you,” Stiles mutters, a little bitterly. “We fit.”

“Do you resent that?” Derek asks, smirking.

“Just remembering how annoying it was when the Kanima scratched us at the police station,” Stiles explains. “Or how not annoying it was, kinda, because I was pressed against you, and I liked that part. Which annoyed me at the time.”

Derek rubs his cheek against Stiles’ silky, spiky buzz cut. “Me too.”

“I will give you five dollars if you get up and close the door,” Stiles says, feeling around in his pocket for a five dollar bill. Failing that, he hunts through Derek’s pockets and finds one, brandishing it proudly.

“So I’d be giving myself my money for closing our door?” Derek asks lazily. At Stiles’ sheepish nod he butts Stiles’ head with his nose. Gently, because even though Stiles is an Alpha now (he flaunts the red eyes when he can, especially during sex, and dammit if his eyes don’t turn Derek on like a light-bulb) Derek always treats him carefully, because he’s still human in his head, has to be careful with him, he is something precious, even though Stiles yells at him for doing that (arguably the only thing they really argue about).

He rolls his eyes but does close the door.

He turns back to Stiles, and he’s snuggled into the space Derek left, sleepy, making kittenish sounds, not too different to those he makes during sex.

Speaking of sex, Derek wants to have some more of that, but right now, it’s eleven o’clock at night, they’ve spent all day moving, and Derek is exhausted. He lifts up Stiles who curls his body into Derek’s, head finding solace in the indentation beneath his collarbone, arms curving around his neck.

Derek’s momentarily thankful that they’d set up their giant, squishy bed earlier on in the day (Stiles is a genius this is not news to Derek) when he dumps Stiles on the bed. He strips him so that he’s only wearing boxers, and then pulls off his clothes. He’s hard when he tucks himself behind Stiles, but that’s just his body’s reaction to Stiles’ closeness, his warm, contented sleepy smell that just makes Derek want to snuggle into his mate and clutch him close in an embrace.

So Derek does just that.

 

Stiles gets through his first year and second without difficulty, but his third year requires him- apparently- to stay up until the early hours of the morning, barely eating anything, studying about seventy five per cent of the time. Fifteen per cent is spent having sex with Derek, because Stiles is still young, he still likes to see how many times he can come in a row without blacking out, and he likes to drag Derek out into the open and make out, before bringing home home and dragging him under the sheets. The rest of the time is spent sleeping and eating very occasionally.

So, literally all Stiles does is eat, sleep, study and Derek.

It’s three months into Stiles’ junior year, and he’s going crazy, studying for an Economics exam at two a.m. like it’s normal behaviour.

 “C’mon Stiles,” Derek sniffles, snuggling closer into the quilts. He’s so warm and toasty, he feels like a Poptart. His brain is a little scrambled by sleep, but nope, he’s awake. Stiles sits on top of the blanket, clutching a book, studying for an exam he’s got tomorrow. At noon. He should be asleep.

Their scents have permeated every inch of the quilt; elements of warmth and sunlight and grease and paper and ink that make up both of their scents. _Their_  bed, their unexpectedly soft, cushy bed, topped with sheets with a high thread-count. Derek loves pushing his face into them and smelling Stiles. Smelling them both. Stiles' body wash, bitter and warm and Derek’s musk and sweat. Derek loves to put his mouth to it, like maybe he could  _taste_  -

It’s not that the light’s disturbing Derek, because he can’t sleep with the light on and Stiles knows this, so he uses the light from his eyes, dimly flashing them red so he can read. Like a light bulb. Derek knows that it’s exhausting, that effort, keeping his eyes wolf but the rest of him human. The room is the faint colour of the Cage.

“In a minute,” Stiles says, and yawns, showing teeth, and Derek feels his heart seize when he glances up at his mate. He looks so innocent when he’s sleepy, like a pup, and it does things to his heart.

Derek grumbles a little as he sits up, pushing closer to Stiles, feeling guilty. He flashes his eyes red, making Stiles start a little.

“Well, if you’re not gonna sleep then why should I?” Derek mumbles, enfolding Stiles in his arms, shooting his eyes towards the page on essentialism.      Stiles smiles, small and soft, and leans back into Derek’s embrace.

“You actual fourth grader.” Stiles says sleepily.

Derek scans the page with Stiles, for a good half an hour before he realises that Stiles hasn’t turned the page. He looks down at his mate and smiles when he notes that Stiles has fallen asleep in his arms. He carefully closes the book, noting the page, and drops it to the carpet.

Stiles snuggles into his embrace, wrapping a cold leg around Derek’s hips and snoring into Derek’s neck. Derek just shakes his head good-naturedly before falling asleep himself.

 

Stiles flourishes at college, after the first few difficult months of junior year.

He gets to debate with people who are as smart as he is, he gets to choose what he studies, and it’s left up to him how much he wants to do or not do.

So it’s perfectly alright when he decides not to do his Economics work and do Derek instead.

Derek’s new Body Shop does well, largely due to the posters that Stiles puts up around campus (they have comic sans, Derek’s kind of confused by them but they work) and word of mouth.

The guys working at the store seem to tolerate him (barely) and he gets to work on cars still, so he’s good.

There’s no other way to describe their life in Palo Alto aside from good.

They both miss the pack, especially on full moons (after the crazy werewolf fucking) when they’re cuddled up together. The pack had gone their own ways: Scott had stayed put in Beacon Hills, with a veterinary apprenticeship offered to him, he wasn’t going to turn it down, and Derek knows that Allison stayed in Beacon Hills too. Erica and Boyd went over to L.A, while Isaac and Danny both got into Dartmouth. Lydia goes to Harvard, so she disappears to the East Coast, and Stiles tells him that Jackson bought his way in too, like the Malfoy he is. It comforts Derek that they’re together, in their pairs, and if they are together they’re safe.

The thing is, this is just instinctual, and Derek wouldn’t have told them which colleges to go to; it’s their decision and their parents’, and Derek considers himself lucky if he had a small input, like he had with Stiles.

That was the way the Hale pack had always been designed, and that would never change.

 

When Stiles turns twenty-one, Derek buys him Comic Con tickets and new tyres for the Jeep. Stiles complains at him about the tyres (he has no idea about the tickets yet) being too much, but Derek tells him to shut the hell up because Stiles went nuts on him and bought him a giant Dictionary on Celtic mythology (he’s a mythology nerd, this is common knowledge, have you seen his tattoo?)  and a new laptop. _A new laptop_.

Stiles says it’s for finances and stuff so he doesn’t have to do the Body shop’s taxes anymore, for Derek.

Derek knows that his part-time job at the bookstore isn’t that good, which means that he must have used some of his savings.

He holds Stiles so tight afterwards, because he’s certain that he’s going to fade out of existence one day soon; this is just too good to be real. Stiles is too perfect to be Derek’s.

They _both_ get a few cards, and Stiles hangs them up by dental floss (because he’s a slob). He laughs out loud at Erica’s joint card which was full of glow in the dark condoms and glitter. Edible glitter.

Stiles rings the Sheriff and talks for a while, before handing off to Derek, in which the Sheriff tells him happy birthday too and questions him on how Stiles is doing with his classes. It hits Stiles that the Sheriff trusts him with Stiles- to ensure that he goes to bed on time most of the time- and he feels happy.

Derek picks up Stiles after college, pleased and warmed by the giant grin he gets when Stiles sees the Camaro. Derek’s only got thirty minutes off from work, which sucks, because he wants to spend the day with Stiles, but that’s life.

Instead, he springs present number three on Stiles. The present that he had shipped over from Beacon Hills, who had to bring his girlfriend and had to be asked to leave his shoes at the airport.  

As Stiles gets in the car, bitching about his professor speaking too fast for even him to hear, a head pops between his and Derek’s seat. Hair rumpled but grinning like a little kid is Scott.

Stiles makes a sound that Derek’s certain only dogs can hear, before pointing at Derek.

“You!” He accuses, grinning madly. “You brought him here? For me?”

“Happy birthday,” Derek says, and his laugh gets caught in Stiles’ lips when they’re suddenly against his.

Scott sings Ke$ha at them (‘MY FIRST KISS WENT A LITTLE LIKE THIIISS’) until they stop, and Stiles grins at his best friend, the one he hasn’t seen since last summer at the barbecue that they’d held back at the Hale house. The one where Scott puked in the pool and Stiles made him do the macarana three times.

Derek drops them off at the safest bar he knows of in town (he listens to his workers talk, okay) and gets Stiles to promise that he’ll ring Derek when they’re done.

Stiles kisses him on the cheek, giving him the puppy eyes because he’s still bummed that they don’t get to spend the day together, before Scott drags him into the bar.

 

He gets a call at midnight from Stiles who tries to come onto him via telephone. It makes him snort instead of making him horny, though, because he tries to make it into a dirty limerick and gets stuck rhyming prostate with hot date.

That’s a sign that his Third in His Class, 2300 on the SATS, National Scholar, genius mate is totally drunk, so he leaves the empty body shop (he’d just been resorting the taxes, the ones he’d already done last week) and heads to the bar.

As he drives up he sees Scott and Stiles propped against each other like the puppies they are.

“Who wants a pick me up?” Derek calls out, and Stiles’ broad grin turns soft and Scott waves like an idiot.

Stiles calls him a babe as soon as he gets in the car. He sits in the back seat with Scott and both of them are cooing like pigeons. Like pigeons. How much must they both have drunk, to actually get _drunk_? Jesus.

“So when are you and Derek getting married?” Scott slurs.

“Soon,” Stiles assures him. “I think, Der-bear, right?”

Derek nods at him in the mirror, making him beam with drunken happiness.

“Wear the suit you wore to prom, you looked like hotter and taller than little gay red riding hood,” Scott says helpfully, winking at Stiles and stumbling over his words.

“I told you about that roleplay we did-” Stiles says, voice suggestive and Derek starts so badly he slams on the accelerator.

“ _Stiles._ ” 

“Sorry, babe, sex talk not nowww not while you’re driving, I feel you, I feel you,” Stiles says, nodding slowly.

“Scott, have you ever seen a picture of a baby rat?”

The rest of the drive home is spent researching pictures of young vermin.

Derek has to walk Scott to his hotel room and Allison opens the door grumpily, hair mussed with sleep, but laughs when Scott face plants onto the carpet.

Stiles plays ‘Drop it like it’s hot’ on repeat for the journey back to the apartment, talking obscenely about Derek’s dick and how it’s his favourite thing, giving reason after reason.

Derek has to carry him indoors because he falls asleep three minutes from their apartment, and the way he mumbles, _carry me like a wayward son, babe, my Der’k,_ he can’t say no to that.

“Ugh, shoot me,” Stiles grumbles the next morning. Derek snorts with amusement, folding up the newspaper and tossing it under their bed. Stiles will complain at him later, but Derek’s the neat one, he’ll tidy it. Which reminds him, when Stiles isn’t suffering from the worst hangover to ever hit a werewolf, he’s got to go grocery shopping.

“Morning sunshine,” Derek says pleasantly, not at all sarcastic, when Stiles pokes his head out from under the sheets to squint at Derek with great curiosity.

“That was mean,” Stiles mumbles, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He collapses back under the quilts, head warm against Derek’s side. He rubs Stiles’ head out of instinct, rumbling quietly. Stiles is so warm in the morning.

“You are a child,” Derek points out.

“A child in pain,” Stiles complains, rubbing his face. “That you like to fuck on a regular basis. Well, technically I’m an adult now. But my point is still valid. Because I’m in agony.”

Derek huffs and passes him the aspirin that probably won’t work and a glass of water from the bedside cabinet. Stiles smiles at him wearily before chugging them both back.

“Thanks, babe,” he says, voice rough with sleep. “I’m sorry if I was a pain in the ass last night.”

“Just last night? Keep going. You’ve been a pain in my ass for years.”

“Only four,” Stiles leers, and Derek snickers. He had that one coming.

He’s silent for a minute when he remembers that Stiles talked about marrying him again, last night. Derek warms all over at the thought.

“How did you get drunk?” Derek asks.

“Jagerbombs. Lots and lots of shots.” Stiles says, scrubbing his hand across his face like he wishes he could rub away last night’s drinking. “You never see this shit happen in Supernatural.”

“That’s because Dean has years of experience,” Derek points out. “Which you don’t have.”

“Who are you, Cas?” Stiles grumbles, which makes Derek roll his eyes.

“If I were, do you think we’d be sitting here right now?” Derek says.

“Where would we be, then?” Stiles asks, staring at Derek with the sort of intensity that reminds Derek of Cas and Dean.

“Comic Con,” Derek mumbles, looking at his hands.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, voice dreamy.

Derek wonders when he should tell Stiles that his twenty-first birthday present is in fact Comic Con tickets, but holds himself back. It feels like he’s doing it a lot, nowadays.

Like holding back on wanting Stiles to marry him.

Stiles suddenly shivers and lurches out of bed to the bathroom.

He pukes for pretty much the rest of the afternoon, begging Derek not to touch him and to just give him a minute, that he doesn’t want Derek to see him like this. Derek sits just outside the door, torturing himself instead. He brings Stiles a blanket when he gets cold instead of wrapping his arms around him and brings him saltines and water.

When Stiles mewls pathetically, Derek can’t take anymore and goes to him. He holds Stiles, rubbing his nose against his cheek-bones, muttering _I love yous_ on repeat. Stiles makes cute sounds in response, affectionate ones, rubbing back against Derek like a demented, shivering kitten. It kind of makes Derek’s stomach turn, too, but for a different reason.

 Stiles has safely kept down the last packet of saltines for an hour, Derek assumes that the alcohol’s out of his system by now. He’s sleepy now, head fallen back against Derek, muttering about curséd Jagerbombs and biting his thumb at bartenders.

He helps Stiles wash his teeth, because he doesn’t want his mate’s teeth to get eroded by acid, and he has to remind Stiles to actually spit out the toothpaste. He’s basically dead weight in Derek’s hands, sleepy from a lack of sleep the night before.

He leaves it another thirty minutes before he takes Stiles to bed, his arms around Derek’s neck, body slack in Derek’s hands. He lays him carefully onto the bed, following when Stiles tugs at his sleep pants (Stiles bought them, they have Harry Potter-esque lightning bolts on them) and sliding into their bed so Stiles doesn’t have to unhitch his hands.

He watches over Stiles for two hours while he naps, feeling like a psychopath and kind of like Cas too.

Stiles wakes up at two a.m. feeling mildly invigorated. Or, invigorated enough to try and fuck Derek.

Derek holds him off with a hand to his abs and the friendly reminder that he’s ill and probably couldn’t take a round of sex without, oh yeah, puking all over them. Stiles shudders at the thought.

“I want to go into criminal law,” he suddenly blurts out. Derek blinks.

“How did we go from puke to law?” He asks, entirely baffled.

“Shut up, Derek, I just decided what I want to do with my life, professionally, because fucking you is not a professional career. So Imma repeat that again and you’re going to be supportive, okay?” Stiles shoots back, giving Derek a firm look that makes Derek’s knees a little weak. Little shit.

“I’m going into law,” Stiles repeats, voice near silent in their large bedroom, and fuck, Derek likes that. Loves that they have their own room. “Criminal law, and then maybe working in the police force. Or the DAs office.  Keep them both in Stilinski hands.”

“I think you’re perfect for it,” Derek responds. He rolls on top of Stiles for emphasis and it makes Stiles huff out a laugh, but he doesn’t puke, which is a plus. Stiles pulls Derek’s hands out from underneath him, because he likes to feel Derek’s full weight crushed against him, whereas Derek still tries to protect Stiles when he can.  Derek shivers at the feel of Stiles pressed against him, as familiar as ever, hands clutched at Derek’s back like they always do.

“Good, because it’s what I’m doing,” Stiles says, incredibly modest. “But this means we won’t get to have sex in the open ever again, if I’m working in the law.”

“Or you’ll know where to go so we don’t get caught,” Derek points out, nuzzling into Stiles’ neck, biting a little.

Stiles squirms under his weight, making Derek roll his hips against him, riding the edge of his thigh.

“Will you be able to deal with calling me Officer Stiles Hale?”

He yelps like a kicked puppy when Derek bites him.

 

Derek tells him the next day- after another day in bed recovering with a bowl of soup and more saltines- that they’re going to Comic Con this July.

He almost wishes he had videotaped it like Erica had suggested when she’d skyped with Derek last week (Stiles had been at the store, and Erica knew logistically how they could get this planned) because Stiles goes crazy.

He’s disbelieving at first, then when he remembers that Derek doesn’t lie to him, flips his shit. He yells YES like a dozen times (Derek pities their neighbours) before launching himself at Derek. They kiss enthusiastically for what feels like a golden age before Stiles drops to his knees, grinning.

“I think you deserve a _major_ thank you,” Stiles says nonchalantly, unzipping Derek with clever hands. He shoves Derek’s jeans to his knees.

“I…do not object,” Derek says, startled.

He strokes Derek until he’s hard (he’s always half-hard around Stiles, it’s a gift and a curse) before kissing at the head of his cock. He takes an excruciating amount of time just kissing his cock, the head just past his lips, until Derek’s certain all the blood has left his body and focused in his cock-

Stiles licks off the pre-come that’s gathered at his lips, eyes entirely focused on Derek, and he looks so good-

Derek wonders why he didn’t film this because while this is something that would go nowhere near grandchildren, this is groundbreaking, earth shattering, and there’s a saying that everything good should be filmed, isn’t there?

Stiles moans around Derek’s cock, palming himself in his jeans, his cock leaking a damp spot onto his boxers that Derek wants to taste, but before he can even think about moving an inch away, Stiles swallows him down to the root, throat flexing-

Derek gasps and his hips give an aborted jerk. Stiles presses his clammy palms against Derek’s naked hips to set up a rhythm, and they fall back into their familiar pattern, and it’s so good, too _good-_

He’s letting out really disgusting embarrassing sounds, but he notes that he’s chanting Stiles’ name like a mantra, like a _prayer-_

Stiles hums around him, and Derek can’t help it, he’s _coming_ -

It’s because of Stiles and his filthy sweet mouth, the way he’s taking Derek so sloppy and so sweet-

One hand tangles in Stiles’ hair and the other punches the bed, but he still can’t close his eyes, still can’t look away, because Stiles is coming almost at the same time, gasping and choking on Derek’s come, his hips jerking into his own touch-

A flame of brilliant white eats away at the edges of his vision, but he watches Stiles through all of it, through every judder, every sensitive wince –

Stiles pulls away from Derek and collapses against him, sweaty chest to sweaty chest, and Derek knows.

He knows he’s going to propose to Stiles, like he’s wanted to for most of his life, and he’s going to do it in July, only three months from now.

Three months to try and write a speech and get a ring and ask for permission and try and persuade the most important person in Derek’s life to be the most important person in Derek’s life _for the rest of his life_.

How.

*****

“Are you ready?” Stiles asks, eyes glittering with mischief.

“No,” Derek gulps. He’s finding it difficult to breathe because this is the best joint birthday present ever. Ever and ever. Not including the ring which is burning a hole in his pocket. He feels like he’s walking into Mordor.

“You’ve wanted to go to Comic Con as much as I have, haven’t you?” Stiles laughs, and his hand squeezes minutely in Derek’s.

He nods quickly.

“Come on. Let’s go and meet our breathren.”

With that, Stiles opens the door and they walk in.

*****

“Derek, Derek get up,” Stiles says, horrified. But Derek is determined to do this, he knows Stiles wants this, he can smell it. He’s just scared that people are looking at him because he tends to flail when he has a lot of attention; for example, after he’d graduated from college and screeched _Magna Cum laude bitches,_ he’d flailed and tripped a little on the stage. Derek has it on film and always has to reassure Stiles he looked fine.

“No,” Derek says firmly, pulling out the ring. He is determined, he is stubborn, he is a fucking pitbull- he gets annoyed at himself for the dog analogy. He wants to see Stiles’ face when he sees the ring, the gold ring which has Elvish scrawled on the inside; _one ring to rule them all_. “Will you marry me, please?”

“Not sure you’re supposed to say please,” Stiles breathes, eyes focused on Derek, tearing up. His mouth is wobbling.

“I just proposed to you in front of two hundred Doctor Whos and an impressive amount of trenchcoats, and that’s what you pick up on?” Derek huffs. He’s waited three months to do this, to gather his courage.

“Yes,” Stiles says, nodding certainly. “Yes, as in, hell yeah I’ll marry you, sourwolf.”

Derek grins, bright and blinding, before Stiles has thrown himself at Derek for a clumsy, sweet kiss. The crowd erupts in cheers and Derek glances over Stiles’ shoulder to see someone dressed as Cas and Dean hugging each other in celebration.

Confetti shaped like Tardises rain down upon them, thrown by an Oswin cosplayer.

He thinks he’s just made the best damn decision of his life.

******

“I, Derek Hale, take thee, Stiles Stilinski,” Derek says, and he’s not crying, he’s not. He’s just got a few dead characters in his eyes. Damn those Ponds.

“I, Stiles Stilinski, take thee, Derek Hale,” Stiles says in response, voice one hundred per cent certain.  His eyes glitter with happiness.

Derek can’t help but marvel at the fact that Stiles metaphorically came and took his heart and set it free. He’s not afraid.

Not anymore.

He knows that Stiles is only twenty-three, and that they’re both so young, but that doesn’t matter at all, because not only is Stiles his mate, but he’s the person Derek wants to spend the rest of his life with, human or werewolf. They live in Beacon Hills and Stiles is training to become a police officer and Derek works at the Body Shop; everything is the way it should be. Stiles is his person, his other half, married or not, and declaring that a little louder to society (by that he means the guys who try to hit on Stiles at events, even when he’s there, which, rude) and the Pack, seems like the perfect idea.

Not when Stiles kisses him after they’re declared husband and husband (‘thanks Barack!’) like a promise, something he intends to keep for the rest of their eternity, both in the animal world and now in the human world. After they’ve promised it in front of their family.

Their family who planned their wedding for them, Erica and Lydia and Isaac and Scott, who made the decisions because all Stiles knew is that he wanted to tell Derek he loved him in the most permanent way possible, without too much fancy shit, and Derek wanted what Stiles wanted.

Stiles is grinning so wide, so hard that it has to hurt, and Derek always wants to make Stiles smile like that.

Derek is awake enough after that kiss to look out into the crowd, and he’s surprised to note that he’s not the only one getting emotional. Scott’s snotting all over Allison, who’s wiping away tears, and Lydia’s crying into Jackson’s shoulder, who’s totally crying manfully. Danny’s grinning, eyes shining with tears, and Isaac bawls openly. The Sheriff’s eyes are shining with tears, Melissa holding his arm to keep from crying. Erica’s covered her face with her hands while Boyd grins at them, the only one who’s not crying.

Crying over the Hales. That will always hit Derek with a surge of boiling hot want, because yes, this is his. He got to have this. And it’s his, all of it, his and Stiles’.

Later, Derek will pin Stiles’ wrists to the bed, his ankles digging into Derek’s back; their rings clacking together, the only things they’re wearing, while Derek comes in Stiles, his body writhing like crazy from his pinned position.

Stiles returns the favour a little while later, Derek’s legs over his shoulders, and Derek wants to hold his breath because this is all too much, it’s too good, he shouldn’t have everything he’s ever wanted, because he’s Derek Hale. Things this good shouldn’t happen to Derek Hale.

Except they totally have. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you :D <3 SO CLOSE TO THE END I CAN ALMOST TASTE IT, RELEASE MY INHIBITIONS...just kidding. But the next chapter is just future fluffy stuff xx


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Future!Sterek, where the Pack has kids and jobs and adulthood to content with now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this, I love you guys so much and the Sterek babies!

 

 

 

 

The title is totally stolen (irony) from Dashboard Confessional's [Stolen](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k_vMvJn5HK8), which is such a Sterek song!

Also, my headcanon for Stiles and Derek's daughter is Ellen Page. Thought you should know. 

* * *

 

Derek is still the first thing that Stiles thinks of in the morning.

He’s enfolded Stiles in his arms, and Stiles has his mouth pressed against that wall of a chest, drooling aimlessly. Stiles grins shamelessly and wriggles, a little, because it’s the morning, and rubbing off against Derek will always be a beautiful thing. Derek mumbles and pats Stiles half-heartedly on the back.

Stiles ducks down and bites at Derek’s nipple and his eyes fly open and his hand flies out to catch himself on the bedside table, which makes the alarm clock fly off. They ignore this and Derek cradles the back of Stiles’ head while he continues, carding his hand through his hair. Stiles knows that they’ve got time for this, then they’re going to have to go and get ready for work.

It feels like freedom, that they sometimes have time to do this in the morning.

So he slides back up Derek’s body and kisses his mate, slow, brushes of lips that he knows will scramble Derek’s already sleepy brain. His morning buddy (or, heh, Stiles’ morning buddy) presses against Stiles’ hip, and fuck. How is it that after all this time, he still feels so good?

“Happy Friday,” Derek says, in that voice he knows has always gotten to Stiles, that low, intimate, growling voice that just makes him want to fuck Derek or be fucked by Derek until he’s senseless.

And suddenly his words go straight to Stiles’ groin.

It’s Friday. The day of sex. Stiles will work overtime for the other four days of the week, and so will Derek, both of them working through their lunch hours so they can have this day off. As the owner of the Autoshop, Derek can take a day off, and Stiles basically runs things over at the Police station (don’t tell his dad), so it’s a day that they take advantage of.

They send their daughter on her way, and then the day commences.

 

Because Stiles likes to make Derek work for it, he works him up just before breakfast.

Stiles strokes him with a loose grip, until he whines and thrusts futilely. Derek’s gorgeous mouth falls open when Stiles brushes his thumb over the slit at the tip of his cock. He flat-out _keens_ when Stiles’ hand drops to his balls and starts to knead with that feather-light grip that he _knows_ makes Derek go _insane._ And because he knows his mouth drives Derek insane, has always driven Derek nuts, he drops down to his cock level and gives his favourite appendage of Derek’s a kiss. He opens his mouth a little and mouths at the tip, only the tip, tongue digging into the slit, Derek’s scent so thick in his nostrils that his cock begins to harden in retaliation.He brings his mouth back around the head, swirling his tongue around it before sucking harshly. Derek arches forward, fingers still grasping at the bed, but only barely; he’s moaning and Stiles can’t take his time anymore, refuses to, so he starts bobbing his head at a steady pace, his fingers curved around the hips in front of him, digging bruises into soft skin. Pre-come spits out, and Stiles takes it, until he knows that Derek’s about to come, judging by those beautiful, pitiful moans that are just trickling out of his mouth. Then he pulls away.

So Derek’s got a wicked case of the blueballs when he goes down to eat (after washing their teeth, of course).

Stiles likes to think of it as revenge for those seven months before he turned seventeen and Derek wouldn’t let him do anything apart from kiss. Those were a painful few months.

Stiles goes straight for the toaster when he gets downstairs, and Derek sits at the island. When Stiles turns to look at Derek, he knows that his mate’s gaze is only focused on his hips, and he still flushes all over.

That’s when Alex makes her entrance.

She stalks into the kitchen, tardis pyjamas crumpled, wolf slippers on the wrong feet (they were a seventeenth birthday gift from Stiles) brown hair a scarecrow’s nest. Her amber eyes aren’t even open yet. Baby steps, baby steps. She sits at the island next to Derek and collapses forward, head against the cool marble.

“Morning sunshine,” Stiles says cheerfully, and she jumps about five feet.

“Oh dear God, _dad_ ,” Alex whines, slumped against the counter.  Derek pats her arm half-heartedly.

Alex is theirs. But she wasn’t born this way.

*****

Some of Stiles’ mom’s relatives came into town.

His mom’s niece and her baby daughter, only a few weeks old. Stiles cooed over her at the airport and his cousin, Elizabeth, had smiled at him and told him that she didn’t have a name yet, that she couldn’t decide in the hospital. She had his mom’s eyes, that little girl, the eyes that Stiles has, too; big, bright amber doe eyes, with a small covering of light brown fuzz on top of her head, with a cute button nose to boot. Stiles was in love, and he said as much. Elizabeth said that she was taken, but babysitting would always be appreciated, seeing as she was thinking of moving back to Beacon Hills. 

It wasn’t a rare experience, seeing his relatives it happened every once in a while, but this was the first time that Stiles had had to play host. That they’d stayed longer than an afternoon. Usually they saw them at funerals, sad as it seemed. The last time he’d seen Elizabeth had been five years ago.

Stiles picked them up from the airport for John in his new car (well, it was two months old, it had been a twenty-sixth birthday present from the Pack and his dad and Derek)and drove them back to Beacon Hills. Or at least he intended to.

They didn’t get that far.

A car ran a red light two miles from Beacon Hills and plowed into the side of Stiles’ new Honda.

If Stiles hadn’t been a werewolf, he would have been dead, that was for certain. In any case, his head cracked against the glass of his window before the car flipped into underbrush.

That was the point at which Stiles blacked out.

He came to only minutes later, to the sound of the baby’s wailing. Elizabeth’s body was over the child’s, clearly shielding, and Stiles could smell the congealed blood, see the sickening set of her bones where she’d twisted to protect her child. The baby was alive, though, and Stiles had to get out.

He shifted to his Beta form and used that strength to push, shove the steering wheel out the way so he could kick open his door. The metal flew into the underbrush with a creak that was like a gunshot in Stiles’ sensitive ears. 

His blood was thrumming as his bones fixed themselves and he tore at the door nearest his cousin’s child. He had the baby in his arms and he didn’t let her go, not even once, not until Derek told him to, and was there to step into her place instead. Stiles let himself fall apart in Derek’s arms, crying into his neck, because that was the last link he had with his mom’s family, and it was _gone_. And he was still shaking, surrounded by flashing lights and men from the force that he knew and drank coffee with on a daily basis.

He and Derek rode to the hospital with the baby, because they wanted to do some checks, and Stiles wasn’t going to let her go alone. And he didn’t want to see his cousin’s dead body get pulled from his totalled car. 

Derek didn’t let Stiles out of his sight.

They had to fight a battle for her when social services came by the hospital, but Derek covered that, snarling at them, mostly human, while Stiles didn’t let go of the baby’s hand through the incubator.

They watched her breathe and sleep peacefully until the morning. Then they met with a doctor who told them that they could be the guardians- she had no other living relations, and Lizzie hadn’t planned that far ahead.

Stiles and Derek didn’t talk about it- Stiles just knew that there was a little girl out there that had just lost her mom, and had no one else, and they both knew what _that_ felt like.

So, they’d adopted her, at the ages of twenty-six and thirty-two.

They named her Alexandra (after Derek’s mom, and her middle names were Laura Arya Elizabeth Helen, for obvious reasons) Hale, and she moved in with them that day, and hasn’t left yet. 

*****

Stiles wants to grin because his two favourite people in the world are _not_ morning people, but the thought of Alex’s mom has put him in a sad mood, so his face turns sombre. Derek’s head jerks upwards, and his mouth curls downwards, like he knows what Stiles is thinking about, like he knows that Stiles still feels guilty sometimes. He probably does know; he knows everything about Stiles.  

Stiles loves when he recognises pieces of Derek in her, signs that she’s not just like Stiles; she’s pretty grumpy for a seventeen year old, has a limited tolerance for morons and is majorly protective over Stiles (which Stiles hates, but Derek always smirks like the ass he totally is when it pops up because he always likes backup).

Stiles puts the strawberry Poptarts out in front of his family (his cooking still hasn’t improved) and flushes all over at the pleased sound Derek makes. It cheers him up, to say the least.

He shoots Stiles a wry grin and Stiles begins to wonder how much time they have, how much time for the sex (he still hears Sam Winchester in his head whenever he thinks those words).

Alex scarfs down her food, like she’s afraid it’s going to go somewhere (also like Derek) and stands up, dumping the dish in the washer and calls out something about working out at school this morning, and something snarky about what a wild life she leads.

Stiles waits until he hears her car (she inherited the Jeep, and Derek takes it into the shop roughly every two weeks for a check up, Tasha’s had so many changes done to her now she barely resembles herself) start and sputter along the drive, then he throws himself at Derek.

Only his slightly- more-awake-now-thanks-Stiles-reflexes stop them both from toppling over onto the floor. The stool creaks under their weights, but they both know from experience that these seats can take their combined weights, under more frantic, uh, conditions.

  “You’ve still got it, haven’t you, babe?” Stiles groans, then laughs when Derek grumbles something vague about poodle werewolves shutting up (he told Stiles once that he’s as cute as those white fluffy poodles at the mall and Stiles resents this). Derek’s sensitive about his age, even though Stiles is kinda jealous to note that he’s wine; getting better with age, shoulders broad with time. His eyes have creases at the edges, but they’re still as warm and beautiful and familiar as they always have been as they gaze up at Stiles. Stiles caresses the curve of Derek’s cheek, pleased when he smiles against his hand.

“Our Friday can begin,” Stiles says, and watches the grin spread on Derek’s face. He touches the tips of his fingers to it like he’s touching something so very precious, and to Stiles, he is.

“I love you,” Derek says abruptly, and Stiles has always loved this about him; he says _I love you_ when he needs to, when he wants to, because he had to push back that feeling for years and now that he doesn’t have to, never forces himself to.

“I know,” Stiles grins, and he does know how much Derek loves him, with his entire being, with his stubborn, grumpy Sourwolf soul, and Stiles loves him so much it’s difficult to breathe, sometimes.

“We have six hours before Alex gets home, why are we talking?” Stiles says, mouth abruptly against Derek’s.

Stiles crushes their lips together because distance bad. They stagger and Stiles vaguely notes that they back into a wall, feels a photo-frame rattle at his back.

They still hunger for each other’s touch like they’ve always done; being together for twenty five years hasn’t changed anything, they’re still actual teenagers that jump each other when they’re alone together and they’ve got enough time, just solidified what they have into something essential, for the both of them, just allowed their love to flourish. And who cares that Derek checks the electric fire in the living room every night before he goes to bed, and that Stiles makes sure that they all have a checkup every month. It's what they do, because they love each other so much. 

And their sexytimez have managed to get better and better, because they know each other’s bodies now, like the back of their hands.

“C’mon, Derek,” Stiles says, and _keens_ when Derek pulls out his cock and starts stroking, with the sort of gentleness that makes Stiles both happy and frustrated because it’s just not hard enough. He starts pumping his hand, using the lube in his pocket to slick over Stiles’ cock so it’s not so harsh, although his grip is cruelly loose, until Stiles thrusts and whines, then his grip tightens.

“C’mon, you beautiful bastard,” Stiles gasps when Derek bites him lightly on the inside of his neck.

“ _You_ are,” Derek mumbles. “You are magnificent,” Derek says, kissing reverently over the skin he meets, nipping it, and laving over it with tongue to soothe the pain, both tantalising and excruciating in equal measures. Derek licks away any blood. “Do you know that? Do you know how perfect you are?”

“C’mon, Derek,” Stiles is the one mumbling now, flushed with embarrassment, because he’s not. He’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Derek is his. Nineteen years later. “I’m yours, c’mon.”

Derek kisses him furiously then, totally uninhibited, because those two words still manage to rile him up during sex. Stiles sucks at his lips, bites at them, while Derek kisses at his bottom lip and sucks it in, moaning low in his throat.

“God, Derek, everyone else is going to smell this later-,” Stiles manages to say when Derek relocates his mouth to Stiles’ jaw.

“Stiles this is our house and we’re two consenting adults and we’re married and we’re _us_ , we can do this if we want to.”

Apparently this is a good enough argument for Stiles, because his hands (without his permission, he might add) reach into Derek’s pants and pull out his half-hard cock. Derek does the same for Stiles, inhaling sharply when he realises that Stiles is already completely hard and leaking.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek breathes, moving Stiles’ hand from his dick to take both of them into his hand.

“Sorry,” Stiles sighs, grinning, totally not sorry, tilting his head back against the wall. “I try to tell my body that I’m not a teenager anymore, but sometimes it doesn’t want to listen. Not when you’re around, at least.”

“No,” Derek says, smiling contentedly, moving his hand lazily around them. “I _love_ that you’re like this. Always so ready for me. Always wanting me, like I want you, like I’ve always _wanted_ you.”

Stiles wants to say something in response to that, anything, but any words that he could have said die an erotic death when Derek tightens his grip on them. He lets out a keening noise, horribly inelegant, hands grabbing Derek’s shoulders and burying his face into the crook of his neck.

It's so good Stiles is half convinced that he's going to come on the spot that he totallly isn't _anymore_ , hear that, dick? Because, fuck, it's _always_ so good with Derek. His face feels hot pressed against Derek and his hips were bucking up into his fist, stifling little moans by biting his lip.

 “Look at me,” Derek says, and yeah, Stiles can smell that he’s close, can hear it in his cracked voice.

Stiles head falls back again and he knows he must make quite the sight. He can feel that his face is flushed scarlet red, the way Derek likes, but he knows he just looks like a tomato. His eyes are half-lidded, and his bottom lip is stinging red from him digging his teeth into it.

“Derek,” Stiles gasps, hands gripping tighter on Derek’s shoulders.

“That’s it, baby,” Derek says, pressing their foreheads together, mouth moving wetly at Stiles’ feverish skin. “Come for me, do it, wanna watch you.”

And that’s all it takes to give Stiles his release, mouth falling open and eyes squeezing shut and fingers digging into Derek’s shoulders. He comes, long and hard, body shuddering with it, because it feels like it’s been ripped out of him. He sees bright white, and possibly unicorns and baby Castiels, and it eats away at the edge of his vision, making him cry out. It feels like heaven, this sensation, Derek’s hand still moving against his sensitised cock, stroking reverently until he finds his own release. Derek’s mouth sucks marks on Stiles’ neck, mouth hot like a brand, teeth tantalisingly sharp when they rub against Stiles. Derek follows close behind, groaning like he’s actually been hurt. Stiles checks. Aside from the ruined sweatpants, Derek’s fine.

When they finally came down from their high, Derek is pressing kisses into Stiles’ hair, his clean hand cupping the back of his neck.

Stiles cleans up the mess, because Derek’s basically asleep against the counter, hands making sleepy grabby motions for Stiles, which is so adorable it’s painful. His hand scrubs against his face, and Stiles is surprised he’s still on his feet, not asleep. Stiles puts Derek on his back, and has to make sure that Derek holds on tight, instead of just groping at Stiles’ upper body. He carries Derek upstairs, and puts him in their bed, their soft bed that reeks of the both of them (he means reek like emits the most pleasant scent of all time, like cookies and brownies have nothing on this, seriously).

Derek’s soft snuffles fill the room almost instantly, and Stiles strips, now confident that the sight of his naked body won’t wake Derek up or rouse him, because he needs sleep, if they’re going to go again.

He lines up the lube and condoms on the bedside cabinet and slides into bed.

Derek, even though he’s almost asleep, reaches for Stiles instinctively, murmuring ‘ _Stiles_ ’ like the grumpy old man he sometimes becomes (usually when Alex’s best friend, Chris McCall, is involved, because the kid is a doofus that totally eats all their food whenever he’s over).

Stiles yawns and decides to nap. It’s totally a decision, though he’s not sure whether even he could stop the slow closing of his eyelids.

He wakes to Derek fingering him open, slowly, fingers making a squelching sound in Stiles’ ass, other hand tugging at his cock. He groans in pleasure, the hot throbbing feel of everything Derek’s doing almost overcoming him, the sensations, the musky, spicy _smell_ of Derek’s arousal.

“You’re mine,” Derek says, growls, really. “I’m yours.”

They’re always in pairs, because Derek reminds Stiles that he has Derek too.

“Yours,” Stiles gasps, because Derek’s fingers are moving in that confusing pattern still, deep and regular, and it’s scrambling his brain. “Derek you are killing me here.”

Derek leans forward, kissing Stiles so slowly he’s abruptly certain that he’s going to lose his mind. Derek’s hands were running all over his body and his mouth is attached to his and then he's gone. Derek’s warm weight is missing and Stiles blinks hazily, watching as Derek leans to get the bottle of lube, dropping it on the bed next to Stiles.

Derek stops before he climbs into bed, just looking at Stiles the way he sometimes does; like Stiles is totally unprecedented and perfect and precious and unbelievable, and it’s overwhelming. Stiles seriously does feel like pinching himself, because Derek is _perfect._ Completely nude and completely unashamed and looking at Stiles like he's the only thing in the world that is important.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Derek mutters and Stiles knows how he looks. His neck’s stupidly red from stubble burn and the harder marks from Derek’s teeth and his legs are spread and he's starting to feel embarrassed which is ridiculous because this is Derek and Derek has seen him naked so many times. “Your appearance actually pains me, like the sun. You hurt to look at.”Stiles grins, because Derek’s just adorable, sometimes. Scratch that, make that all the time.

He looks up at Derek who's back between his legs again, pressing kisses down his neck and then across his chest. Stiles runs a hand through Derek’s hair and lets out a low moan when Derek latches onto one of his nipples, hands gripping Stiles’ sides hard.

“Derek,” Stiles breathes, cupping the back of Derek’s head and keeping him there.

Derek’s hands moved to his thighs, moving Stiles farther up the bed so that he is reclining against their huge pile of pillows rather than lying down. His head feels like it’s spinning though, Derek is nibbling at his nipple now, sucking it, and rubbing the other one with his thumb, and God he wants to return the favour and more.

And wanting to do something back for Derek quickly leaves his mind as Derek presses kisses down his chest and stomach before nuzzling the dark curls around his cock, the freckle at the tip of his cock. Hands pressed against Stiles’ hips and green-grey eyes meet his until Derek grins evilly and takes Stiles into his mouth, slowly, an inch at a time, his tongue focused on the slit at the tip of his dick. 

He watches as long as he can, watching as Derek takes all of him in his mouth before hollowing his cheeks and sucking and-  _holy mother of_ _fuck_ , he can’t do this. Stiles’ head falls back on theirpillows and he groans, loving the way Derek’s tongue runs across his head and on the vein and the way Derek fills his mouth with spit and suckles, leaving Stiles panting and gripping at Derek’s hair. Just when he thought that Derek would let him fuck into his mouth, finally, he lets go and his mouth travels further down.

There are a few laps to his balls that have him practically _fainting_ when Derek raises his hips and-.

“ _Oh, God yes_ ,” Stiles moans, heels digging into the bed as Derek run his tongue over his hole. “Fuck, Derek, how are you even real-  _oh-oh-oh_.”

That stupid tongue is going to be the absolute death of him. Death by Rimming. It's going to be a thing as soon as Stiles dies from it. Because Derek knows what it does to him, knows how it makes him whimper and writhe in the most embarrassing ways. But he can’t deny that he fucking loves it. He distinctly remembers one Sunday a few years ago, when Derek had taken advantage of the empty house and rimmed Stiles for _hours._ All Stiles can say, is Dean doesn’t know torture.

Derek’s tongue just massages over his hole now, not even pressing inside in the slightest. Then Derek reaches down, pulls his cheeks apart and _just_ laps inside. Stiles groans, pressing himself closer to Derek’s tongue, trying to get more inside of him. He's seriously beginning to think that Derek's going to deny him when his tongue darts inside and-  _fuck_ , it sounds like Stiles has just whined in sheer ecstasy. Fantastic.

He couldn’t help it though and didn’t even want to, because Derek is fucking him with his tongue and it’s wet and fluid and pressing against him in the best ways, but he just needs _more_.

“Derek,” he pants, and how can he still pronounce his name properly. “Fuck, Derek, just… just do it already.”

Derek pulls away from him at that, looking up at Stiles and who gave him the right to look like that? He’s just blown Stiles and then tongue-fucked him and he still looks like he’s the one in charge, the dominant one.

“Do what?” Derek asks, smirking and  _there's_ his _Derek_.

“Seriously?” Stiles says. “Derek you know what I want. Stop being a smartass.”

“Are you sure about that?” Derek questions, raising an eyebrow.

 “You know,” Stiles repeats. "What I want. Don't make me say it."

“Oh? You mean this?” Derek asks, ducking back down and pressing his tongue against him again.

“No,” Stiles huffs out, trying not to melt into a puddle all over again.

“Then what?”

“Fuck me.”

“Eventually,” Derek says, moving up to kneel between his legs and grab the bottle of lube.

“Derek, come on, you torturer you,” Stiles groans, watching as Derek pours lube onto his fingers.

“I haven’t done anything yet,” Derek shrugs, reaching down to press one slick fingertip against his hole. “You don’t have to say anything.”

And then Derek is kissing his neck and rubbing that finger against his hole and he's being so tender and light and perfect and-.

“That’s my point,” Stiles says. “Just fuck me into the matress already, because otherwise I will rip your throat out with my _teeth_ -.”

Derek slips the finger inside and instantly presses it against that one spot inside of Stiles. He lets out a low groan, grabbing Derek’s bicep and looking up at him hazily. Derek slips another finger in easily enough, eyes flickering from Stiles’ face to where he’s taking Derek.

“So good,” Derek mumbles, already pressing a third inside of him. “You always take it so good, Stiles.”

Stiles just nods, bringing Derek closer to press their foreheads together. The stretch’s fantastic, but he knew that it’d be even better with Derek inside of him.

“Derek,” Stiles pants as Derek starts to pump four fingers in and out of him. “Please, just-.”

“I’ve got you,” Derek says, slipping his fingers out of him and finally,  _finally_ slicking up his cock. “Shh. I’ve got you.”

His hips jerks up to meet Derek and that's when Derek just _finally_ lets go. He stops just short of pounding into Stiles, thrusting hard in a rhythm that's slowly dissipating, sweaty hands clutching pale hips.

“Holy mother of God,” Stiles pants, gripping onto Derek as best as he can. “Oh, shit, right there. That's _it_. Right there, Derek,  _oh fuck_.”

"It's Derek, actually," Derek smirks, but that mouth falls slack with blatant want when Stiles' hips buck jerkily with pleasure.

Stiles head falls back, baring his throat and Derek marks the pale, freckled skin and Stiles groans, moving his hips regularly to meet Derek’s thrusts. “Derek, please just- just  _touch me_.”

Derek brings a hand around to grip Stiles and after barely two strokes he comes, mouth open, head tilted back, eyes fluttering closed, and a strangled moan escaping from him. He clenches and unclenches around Derek sporadically and Derek only has to thrust one more time before he finds his release deep inside of Stiles.

“I missed you,” Derek says, voice low and only a little out of breath. The jerk.

“Me…too,” Stiles pants.

“Wanna skip tonight? Tell ‘em Alex is ill, send her over to Chris’?” Derek asks, a little too hopefully. Stiles is so tempted, he even imagines making the necessary calls. Even wants to.

Then he remembers that it’s the _Pack_ …a middle-aged and getting older by the second, with kids, but they’re still the irritating teenagers Stiles has always known, still the people he can’t really live without…

“We haven’t seen dad in a couple of weeks,” Stiles points out, voice so fragile that he knows Derek picks up on his worry. He worries even now, even though his dad’s proven his health. Not like Melissa would let him eat unhealthily, now that Stiles can’t, just like Derek doesn’t let Stiles get the high sugar crap he used to love, just like Derek checks the pies that Erica and Boyd bring are always no sugar.

Derek’s face softens and he nods. “We can send Alex out tomorrow and ban anyone from coming over to the house.”

Stiles grins. He’d expected, after nineteen years of marriage, they’d stop wanting to fool around like teenagers, but nope. They’ve just got to work around timetables and sometimes they’ll work through their lunch breaks but Stiles is more than okay with this if it means Stiles gets Derek in bed and they get the house to themselves for a few hours. One memorable night Derek turned up while he was doing paperwork in a mostly empty station, and they fucked in the bathroom, uninhibited.

“Did you manage to solve that Singer case, honey?” Derek asks, managing to inject enough cockiness in that sentence to fill a whole country. Derek has always been cocky enough about Stiles being the youngest officer to make detective for the both of them.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, running a hand through his hair. “Finished the paperwork, too. Manage to fix that Lamborghini, yet?”

“No,” Derek grumbles. “The part hasn’t come in yet. That reminds me, I need to ring Todd.”

“Let me just note that down,” Stiles says. “Oh wait, I’m totally naked and haven’t been ravished in like ten minutes. Wanna change that?”

“You, naked, is one of my favourite things,” Derek says earnestly, eyes wide, springing into action. His heartbeat is steady while he says those words, but Stiles is really rewarded by the hitch in his breathing when he leans to kiss Stiles, tongue stroking against his, body rutting against Stiles’. Stiles wriggles a little and feels his mouth go slack when Derek strokes reverently at the mole underneath his right pec.

*****

Stiles panics, however, when he hears the rumble of the Jeep coming up the drive. Looks like round three is cancelled.

Alex is home.

Shit.

Stiles throws on sweatpants and a Henley (one of Derek’s) while Derek chooses a similar outfit.

They don’t like scarring their daughter. Teenagers are sensitive, y’know? Stiles and Derek speed into the kitchen and Stiles turns on the oven, for something to do. Even though all the food that will be eaten this evening is take out. That’s irrelevant. Derek picks up the newspaper and starts separating it, sneakily stealing the Sports Section. They always fight over that section.

“Oh my God,” Alex groans, slamming into the house. She starts stamping up the stairs because she is a total teenager. Stiles perks up, in the kitchen. He and Derek usually get home at around seven (he’s got an efficient system at work that means that he’s never on the night shift, because he’s a detective) so Alex is pretty used to having the house alone.

He pokes his head out of the kitchen. “Honey?”

Alex screams and trips up the stairs.

“Who do you think you are, Jennifer Lawrence?” Stiles says.

Alex laughs falsely before giving Stiles what he likes to call the Hale glare. It’s pretty effective at making Stiles shut up, and in Derek’s case, making Stiles drop to his knees.

“I could be,” she says, peeling herself off the stairs. “Bad day, dad. Bad, _bad_ day. Also kind of the best day. I don’t know. Maybe? Ha, ha, I’m gonna go to bed and cry there for a few hours, m’ kay?”

Stiles frowns at her. “Alexandra Arya Laura Elizabeth Helen Hale, you sit yourself down and explain what the hell is going on. I think I need to sit down after saying your whole name.”

Alex huffs a little but does join her fathers in the kitchen,

“You know…James? James Whittemore?”

“You mean that kid that’s my godson? No, never heard of him, why?” Stiles says. Derek nudges him because Alex looks like she’s so confused she’s about to start watching chick flicks. Which is never a good thing.

“His Mercedes broke down in the parking lot, so I fixed it,” she groans through her hands, covering her heated cheeks. “His starter plugs were dirty.”

“I ship it,” Stiles says, nodding carefully.

At that, Alex groans and thuds her head against the counter.

Derek tries to keep the laughter reined in.

The phone rings, and Stiles answers it with a cheery, “What is up?”

“Stiles,” Lydia says on the other end of the line, “We have a Code Wolfsbane.”

Code Wolfsbane was the term they all coined when they all started having kids; it means, _my child has a crush on your child._

“Oh,” Stiles grins. “Us too.”

“Don’t worry, though, Jackson’s taking care of it,” Lydia says cheerfully, and Stiles can hear Jackson on the other end of the phone.

“ _If your age is on the clock, you’re too young to be giving out the cock,”_ Jackson says, voice severe. Jackson wouldn’t say, but he dotes on Alex, just because she’s the best at lacrosse.

“ _Giving out the cock_?” He hears James say, because he’s a sassy little shit just like Jackson was. Still is. Such a Theon Greyjoy. “ _It’s not a coupon, dad_.”He hears the sound of chairs scraping, which means he must have got up.

“ _Shut up and sit down, son, I was talking about military time_.” Jackson shoots back.

Stiles cannot breathe.

“I think we’ve got it covered. See you tonight for dinner!” Lydia says cheerfully, hanging up the phone.

Derek’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter now.

“Dad, you can’t start _shipping_ us, it’s difficult; papa, please tell me you don’t agree with him,” she says, speaking to Derek because Stiles totally copied Neil Patrick Harris and David Burtka and got her to call Stiles daddy (when she was younger so it wasn’t creepy) and Derek’s papa.

“Don’t look at me, I’m trying to remember where I put the wedding china,” Derek says, shrugging with deeply furrowed eyebrows. Stiles grins.

“I don’t know how to boy? How do you boy?” Alex says, looking confused and a little disgusted. “I don’t know how often you have to water them and talk to them-”

“You’re not dating a corgi,” Stiles points out.

"He's just a boy that you know," Derek finishes, and Stiles _loves_ that they still finish each others' sentences.

“I’m not talking to you guys about this,” she decides firmly. “I’m calling Chris, and I swear to god, stay _away_ from your wedding China!”

With that she sprints up the stairs and slams into her room. It’s a fairly often occurrence in their house.

Stiles and Derek high-five each other, before they set up this evening’s meal. Or, to put it in other words, ALEX AND JAMES’ FIRST DATE. Alex comes downstairs after the phone call with a pile of homework and sits at the island.

They plan half the meal (they plan what to order, they’re not stupid, Alex giving them ideas and hints for the evening) before the phone rings.  Derek answers and his face lights up, and Stiles knows what it is before Derek even says anything.

 “The part’s come in,” Derek says, half jubilant, half uneasy.

“So, you’re gonna go over to the Autoshop?” Stiles already knows the answer, and he grins a little at the look of indecision on Derek’s face.

“Well, I don’t want to do it tomorrow,” Derek says significantly, like Stiles wouldn’t realise what he meant.

“Go and work on that car,” Stiles says, a half-order, because Derek sometimes doesn’t want to leave Stiles in the morning, unless Stiles asks him to. He’s not great at the departure thing himself, for instance when Derek got his very first cold (Stiles took photos, Derek with a red nose was something he was never going to miss, was it) Stiles wanted to stay at home with him so badly, but Derek made him go to work. Stiles had gotten all the way to the station and sat outside in his cruiser, remembering what it had felt like to sit with Derek in this very spot all those years ago, and he had to go back to Derek. He called in sick for four days and he looked after Derek. Still one of the best decisions of his life.

Derek kisses him, biting a little, then places a kiss on the top of Alex’s head before ducking out of the kitchen. Stiles rolls his eyes when he realises Derek took the Camaro. Someone’s clearly hurrying when they don’t have to.

Alex sits still for another thirty seconds or so before groaning and slamming her very human head against the marble.

“Cheer up, kiddo,” Stiles says mildly. She definitely has the Hale melodrama down to a _T_.

“Dad, I just don’t want to make a fool out of myself,” Alex says.

“You have Stilinski genes, it may be unavoidable,” Stiles says, biting his lip.

“Thank you for being so great about this,” she adds, not sarcastic. For once. “I know papa is going to castrate James, but I knew that you would be semi-reasonable about all of this.”

“What can I say, I’m not a regular dad, I’m a cool dad,” Stiles says. “And Derek won’t castrate James. He’ll take him to Fight Club first.”

That’s what Stiles calls the Pack meeting they have on Wednesdays, because while Erica’s pregnant, and Lydia and Allison are human, it’s largely been the guys fighting. That means, even with Stiles’ calming influence, the fighting has been particularly brutal. Stiles has limped away on more than one occasion, and he remembers during a fight between Isaac and Scott last week, someone had his face shoved into gravel.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Alex says, biting her lip, and Stiles feels a little guilty. “He’s a walking dead man. He’s Rick from the _Walking Dead_.”

“I knew you’d like that series,” Stiles grins, then remembers his point. “Nothing bad is going to happen, okay? I won’t let it. Papa will just do some…interrogation. Mild, interrogation. I’m the Russian one.”

She looks mildly terrified, but also a little cheered up. Stiles is pleased.

The Boyds arrive first (and that will never sound right in Stiles’ head, so he refers to them as the Reyes family) and Erica stalks in first. She hugs Alex first, then Stiles, rolling her eyes when Stiles coos at her barely pregnant stomach. Stiles saw Erica four hours ago at work but that means nothing, not with Pack. She scrubs over Stiles’ hair fondly when he enquires after Mr Reyes. Alex sprints upstairs to change because even Stiles admits that she looks a little mangy. She uses the word homeless.

“He and Boyd are just getting the pie out of the car,” she says. This is before she hands Stiles one pie. Why do they always bring so many damn pies?

“Still don’t understand how you don’t get confused with the Boyds,” Stiles mutters, taking the pie and heading to the kitchen. 

“He’s Boyd the fourth, we call him Four because I liked that film, what was it?” She says, taking the pie out of Stiles’ hands and tucking them in the fridge, like she always does. She claims that she stacks pies the most efficiently. It is a gross lie.

“ _I am Number Four_ ,” Boyd the adult supplies helpfully, handing Erica another two pies.

Boyd the Fourth a.k.a. the teenager hands her the last, smiling in a way that’s so Erica it startles Stiles, a little. In other ways, he’s all Boyd; the same build and appearance, the same dry, sardonic personality with Erica’s sharp, honest edge, but he’s got Erica’s eyes, golden brown and playful.

“It was a good book too,” Young Boyd points out, and Stiles nods.

“Go sit down. Isaac and Danny are late and Scott and Allison are running late (shocker) and Lydia and Jackson should be here soon, so go and eat the food while you can,” Stiles says.

Derek pops his head into the kitchen and winks at Stiles, before grinning at the others. He undoes his tie a little and it still makes Stiles’ knees weak.

“Evening, all,” Derek greets, going straight for Stiles’ side. Stiles tilts his head downwards for a kiss, and greeted by a warm brush of lips, annoyingly chaste, but his hands are tight on Stiles’ hips so Stiles is more than good. Derek keeps his hand on Stiles’ hip, and Stiles still wriggles into the touch.

It’s not like there’s anyone to see, they’ve all emigrated to the dining room.

Alex clatters down the stairs and heads straight for the fridge. Stiles and Derek have reared her well.

Stiles expects some Aunt Erica-esque clothing (from her newly turned!Erica spectacular days) but she’s dressed normally, jeans and a t-shirt that reads, _I like you. I shall kill you last._ He remembers Derek buying her that shirt last Christmas.

“No pearls?” He says, acutely aware of all the parenting guides he’s read that suggest that criticism of any sort isn’t helpful to teenagers. He basically is a teenager. He remembers what everything felt like.

“I’m not going to change who I am just because a boy likes me,” she says, shrugging. “If he likes me he’s going to like me. Which he totally will, because I am a _hoot_.”

She got the sarcasm from Stiles and Derek, it has to be said.

Boyd the Fourth suddenly erupts into the room to hug Alex. She yells his name, swiftly followed by a  Yeha! And gets a piggy back. They run away. Stiles regrets that Boyd the Third never did this for him, but he remembers that Derek did it a lot for him, but with more interesting consequences. When he glances up at Derek, his lips are pursed, and Derek grins at him with more teeth than is strictly necessary (for health reasons, his full, supermodel smile with its slight bunny teeth and beautiful gleam are blinding is often too much for Stiles to take, so he usually grins with his mouth closed) before squeezing Stiles’ ass.

“Eep!” Stiles squeaks, a sound similar to the one a very small dog would make, not like he’s been married to Derek for nineteen years and therefore used to Derek’s errant ass grabbing, or anything.

“Behave, Sourwolf,” he scolds, barely serious, and Derek kisses him on the mouth fully, like Stiles has wanted him to all evening.

“I’m sorry I had to leave Friday early,” he murmurs into Stiles’ cheek, lips brushing over the skin reverently.

“Me too,” Stiles grins. “But at least that Lamborghini’s fixed, now. I know it’s been killing you for the past week.”

“True,” Derek says, deeply satisfied with himself, which is sexy as hell. Stiles sits back and admires dat ass while he bends in the fridge for some wine.

“Our daughter has decided to be reasonably sane about this whole situation,” Stiles says, still checking out Derek’s ass. In reality, it’s safe to assume he is always checking out Derek’s ass.

“She’s related to you, I find this odd,” Derek says, totally deadpan. Stiles pretends to laugh.

“I’m a high-functioning sociopath, do your research,” Stiles says and Derek abruptly looks like he wants to cry.

“Season Three’s coming out next week,” he says, and Stiles hushes him.

“If we don’t talk about it everything will be okay,” Stiles says.

“Sorry we’re late,” Stiles hears, and then he has a handful of best friend. Scott hugs him before slapping Derek on the shoulder and going straight for the dining room.

Allison kisses Stiles and Derek on the cheek, before following her husband. Chris, their oldest kid, appears out of nowhere and grins lazily at the homeowners. He’s a baby Scott, just taller and leaner, with Allison’s frame, but otherwise, he’s exactly like Scott.

For instance, the habit of _always_ digging in their fridge.

“Evening, uncle Stiles, uncle Derek,” Chris says, voice pleasant because he’s genuinely a sweet kid, just has a never-ending appetite for their food. Which doesn’t endear him to Derek.

“Stay away from the pie,” Derek says bluntly, before he pushes past him to go in the dining room.

“I wasn’t gonna eat the pie,” Chris frowns, a little upset. He produces some milk duds instead.

“He’s still bitter about the fruit salad from last week,” Stiles hypothesises. “Ignore him. How are you?”

“Worried about Alex,” Chris says through a mouthful of food. “She’s not gonna let me beat this guy up. Says something about us being cousins, basically.”

“That’s true,” Stiles says. “Plus, the overprotective best friend is never cool.”

“Caring,” Chris corrects. “I’m just caring.”

  
“No, you’re just being silly,” his younger sister corrects, chocolate brown curls bouncing as she hands Stiles a carton of Chinese food. She’s a baby Allison, but her pretty tan skin gives away her heritage as part Latina.

“Tori, intelligent as always,” Stiles says, and bends to give her a hug. “We’ve got egg foo young in the dining room. If you run, you might beat Derek to it.”

She grins evilly, all dimples, before running off.

“You too,” Stiles says, to Chris. “I’ve been craving egg fried rice all day. Alex and Boyd went that way.” He points in the direction of the rest of the house. “Go and tell them dinner’s ready or everyone’s here, would you?”

Chris practically skips away.

Isaac and Danny arrive next, and they have the Thai food.

“Daniel,” Stiles greets, voice stoic, which makes him roll his eyes. He hugs Stiles.

“Isaac hit a squirrel,” he says in lieu of greeting. “And the Dolphins lost.”

So that’s why they were late. Stiles knows that when the Dolphins lose, Danny goes out back and hollows out the canoe they have back there, hacks at the wood with an axe until he loses the impulse to murder. And Isaac, well, the guy’s still a giant loveable puppy, who now works with Scott at the Veterinary Practice, and is still a Vegan. He cries after the full moon. So killing a squirrel probably would have required a mini funeral and flowers.

Proving this point, Isaac comes in, sniffling. Stiles hugs him and ruffles his curls.

“Cheer up, Sandy,” Stiles says. He’s not referencing to Spongebob. It’s Tori’s fault, she’s a little hipster.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he mopes, and goes straight for the food. He totally stress eats. Danny raises an eyebrow at Stiles.

“Ooh, question, did you need to change anyone’s grades?” Stiles asks, remembering. Danny does a check every semester whether any of the Second Generation’s Pack’s grades needs to be changed.

“Boyd the Fourth and Chris,” Danny says under his breath. “Just Chemistry and American History. Irony, only class they have together. Other than that, they’re both at three point eights or above. Alex and James are getting above Four point ohs. She’s a regular Stilinski, He’s a Martin. It’s a match made in the flames of purgatory.”

“What a coincidence,” Stiles says under his breath. “I suppose that’s good, only two.”

“We run that school,” Danny says, giving Stiles a fist bump.

“Haven’t we always?” Lydia says breezily, abruptly in their kitchen. She’s carrying the fancy sushi stuff that no one apart from Jackson ever eats.

“Yes, Astro Girl,” Stiles says and endures a tight hug. What. He’s always gonna mock, Lydia works at NASA. NASA. Genius.

“I’m dying for Indian food,” Lydia says, and goes for the dining room. “By the way, Stiles, I _told_ you you looked good in Armani!”

Stiles huffs good naturedly when Danny runs his eyes over Stiles. “You do suit Armani. Pun unintended.”

“Hilarious, Danny. Can we go and eat something, before I’m forced to eat everyone?”

“I’m sure the only person you eat is Derek,” Danny says innocently, cackling at the look on Stiles’ face.

Stiles settles in his seat at the top of the table, and Derek gives him a small sad look that totally reads, _where have you been._ Because he’s a giant softie. He kisses him on the tip of his long, proud nose, before snagging half of his plate. Derek grumbles but goes and gets more food, anyway, because he’s used to Stiles stealing his food. It’s not Stiles’ fault that his food tastes by default, better. Derek’s scent is just really good. Derek basically rolls over their laundry, so Stiles isn’t the only crazy one. Derek squeezes the top of his thigh, just high enough for it to be inappropriate, and Stiles flushes bodily.

It still turns into the War of the Seven Kingdoms whenever the Mets and the Yankees play. Alex supports the Mets, and Derek knows that this is because Stiles is her favourite (he's Derek's favourite too) whereas Stiles thinks she's just got good taste. 

The second generation Pack hurtles into the room, smelling strongly of competition and Pack scents, so Stiles snuggles closer into Derek’s side and continues to eat. Alex sits next to Stiles (her usual place), while Chris sits next to her. In pack order, or hierarchy, on Stiles’ left sits the Second Generation, while the First Generation sits on Derek’s side, with Boyd next to Derek at the top. Jackson sits at the bottom, the Omega, while his son sits opposite him, also the Omega.

The two men in question actually arrive, and Jackson does not look impressed. At his tardiness, maybe. James is flushed, in a way that’s totally like Lydia, and that probably makes it easier for Derek to hate the kid.  

“Sorry we’re late,” Jackson says, a little bitterly. “Someone took an hour and a half in the bathroom.”

James looks sheepish, but doesn’t say anything.

This evening’s gonna be interesting.

 

It gets more interesting when Boyd goes to get Erica a drink, and James takes his seat. It’s right at the top of the table, six seats further up than where he usually sits, and it’s right next to Derek. Apparently, the kid has a death wish, because he tells Boyd that _he left the chair area_ , and sits down next to one of his Alphas, even though he’s an Omega, and this breaks the hierarchy into pieces.

Especially because he starts trying to play footsie with Alex, who’s sitting right opposite.

Except he gets Derek instead.

“Did you mean to play footsie with _me_?” Derek growls, red eyes flashing at James, and the kid blanches, gulping down air.

“No…” he whispers, and retreats down to his usual end of the table. Boyd the Third shuffles up to his usual spot with a self-righteous grin. Jackson smirks when James isn’t looking, but gives him an ashamed look otherwise. The rest of the pack snickers, including Stiles. Derek’s totally grinning.

The rest of the dinner passes without bloodshed, but barely.

It’s a close call.

It’s saved by the arrival of his dad and Melissa- which upset him, a lot, at the time, but they’re not married, probably will never get married, and they both wear the rings from their last marriages, anyway, but they’re in love. Scott’s unofficially his brother, he’s an uncle twice over by the doofus and Allison. He’s also Chris’ godfather (where did the pack get the idea that he’s religious, he’s a godfather twice over)but he’s total buds with Victoria, their youngest, because she’s newly addicted to Doctor Who, while Chris is at his house way too much and eats all his food and also has a key, which faintly disturbs Stiles and Derek, even though he’s the closest thing to a brother Alex has. Alex totally loves Grandpa Stilinski because he lets her stay with them during the full moon so she doesn't have to hear the crazy werewolf fucking. 

“Grandpa!” Victoria squeals and launches herself at John. He grins a little ruefully, but doesn’t have the heart to tell her that he’s not actually her grandpa. Weird as it may be, most of the kids call him grandpa, because otherwise they wouldn’t have one; Boyd and his parents stopped talking after he proposed to Erica, because they didn’t approve of her, Lydia’s mom has moved to France and her dad lives out of state, so the kids barely see him, Jackson’s estranged from his parents, as is Erica, so all that leaves is John for grandpa material, or Chris Argent. And most of the kids are terrified of Chris Argent, seeing as four of the five children of the Pack are werewolves. Born ones.

Alex is the only human, and she seems content to keep it this way.

 

“So, college,” Lydia says, and Stiles does a drum roll, which makes Derek roll his eyes. “Who’s applying where?”

“Stanford, Princeton, Harvard, Columbia and Yale,” Alex says without a beat. “After a year of working with papa at the Autoshop.”

“And Boyd,” Boyd the Third reminds her. “Your kind of uncle Boyd works there too.” She grins a little.

“Harvard, CalTech, MIT, Stanford and Dartmouth,” James says after. While he seems to be all Jackson, with the athletic build, blonde hair and knife-sharp cheekbones and sass, he’s got Lydia’s intelligence. Usually. Not when it involves Alex, apparently.

“Army,” Boyd the Fourth says, around a mouthful of food, which makes Erica beam proudly.

“Apprenticeship with dad,” Chris says.

“Princeton,” Victoria says promptly, which makes them laugh, because she’s six years old.

 

The evening winds down once the Second Generation has decimated the food, and the Sheriff and Melissa leave. The Second Generation prepare to leave for the midnight showing of _American Pie;_ number two hundred and sixty, and for the first time, Alex wants to go. It may be to do with the texts that keep making her phone vibrate, the ones that make her smile a little awkwardly.

“Is it okay if I go, please?” Alex says, biting her lip which is a clear sign that she’s both nervous and excited.

“You do realise you can’t take your computer, right?” Stiles says which gets a muted Hale glare. He laughs as Derek pokes him in the side for torturing their daughter. Alex smiles though, so it’s all good.

But she never goes out with anyone apart from _Chris_ , and he’s effectively her brother, so Stiles deserves some fun.

“Yes,” Derek says, nodding. He hands her a twenty. “Go wild.”

She grins, even as the engine roars outside, signalling that James is getting impatient, the son of a bitch, which, sorry Lydia. Alex rolls her eyes at him, and Stiles knows abruptly that she’ll be able to deal with James Whittemore and his shit very well.

“Stilinski Group hug,” he demands, arms wide. Derek cuddles in like the limpet he is, and Alex’s arms wrap around Stiles tight, too.

“We’re Hales,” Derek grumbles.

“Not when we hug. Or when we eat breakfast cereals.” Stiles says, before pushing Alex away with a light shove. “Be careful. Love you.”

“Love you,” she calls out before ducking out. They hear her get into the car and snark at James for being an impatient dumbass, and subsequently fist-pump Chris before the car peals away.

“I’m going to bed,” Derek says abruptly, voice suggestive.

“Oh?” Stiles can feel the stupid, food induced grin on his face.

“I’ll be stretching myself on my fingers, thinking of you, waiting for you,” Derek says simply, mouth near silent against Stiles’ ear. Stiles shivers at the lush sensation of Derek’s mouth, electricity thrumming through his veins.

Derek smirks before turning on his heel and going upstairs, wiggling his hips a little for Stiles’ benefit, which makes him huff and run a hand through his hair. His cock twitches. Shit.

He goes back into the dining room, trying to figure out a polite way to kick out the Pack right this moment.

“We’re getting old,” Scott mumbles against the table.

“I still think in Ke$ha lyrics, I refuse to get old,” Stiles says.

“You still look like a twenty year old,” Lydia complains. “My sister asked me about botox the other day- _botox._ ”

“I don’t know what you guys are talking about, I stopped aging at thirty three,” Allison says.

“Shut up, all of you,” Erica instructs. Boyd murmurs something probably highly pornographic and a little sweet in her ear, which makes her smile.

“Get out,” Stiles says pleasantly, making shooing gestures. He gets raised eyebrows in return and because he’s tired, and he’s got Derek naked up in his bed right now, he could be with him, he flashes the eyes. A gentle reminder of authority.

Jackson snickers, “Whoa! Take it easy man!” But he takes a hint and the last of the pecan pie before leaving, with a clap to the shoulder for Stiles. Lydia kisses him on the cheek.

Scott knows the face of a deeply Blueballing Stilinski when he sees one, so he picks up Tori (fast asleep on the couch, she’s too young for _American Pie_ ) and carries her away as fast as possible. Allison steals some pies, then with a stray hug, departs.

Danny steals the rest of the pies, because he’s always trying to fatten up Isaac, and tugs Isaac through the doorway. Isaac gives Stiles an iron hug before he leaves though, and apparently it’s for him and Derek.

Boyd actually carries Erica away, because her ankles are sore, apparently, and she waves regally.

Stiles is so pleased when he closes the door and goes upstairs.

Their lives are on the walls of the house.

Literally.

There are loads of photos. Stiles likes to capture moments of their lives and Derek likes proof, for himself, maybe, that things existed, that events occurred. There are stupid ones, like Stiles, shirtless, singing Love Story for Derek at the oven, burning food, probably, and Derek throwing Stiles into the surf at the beach from a few years ago. There is a life in these frames, stupid moments and important ones.

Like their wedding photos. Stiles runs his hands over the gold frame, testing the weight. Stiles smiling, stupid with happiness, Derek grinning at Stiles, white teeth blinding, near-Adonis in his tux. Their faces are young, unlined, but Stiles doesn’t remember feeling any differently to how he feels right now. The same goes for their prom photos which are here too, the ones taken by his dad, and the ones professionally done; the red suit is still heinous, while Derek looks practically edible. Ignoring what Derek thinks, Stiles still feels a little bitter at the injustice of it all.

The next frame is the group photo from their last beach trip with the Pack. Stiles grins at the First Generation of Pack, because they’re wearing swimsuits and suntan lotion and Danny and Allison are doing a perfect handstand in the corner while Scott looks like he’s about to kick the camera holder and Boyd’s doing a piggy back for Erica and Lydia is doing a piggy back for Jackson (they basically look like a group of six year olds) while the kids wear jeans and shirts and matching unimpressed looks. Stiles is wrapped up in Derek, eyes on him, while Derek’s doing a piggy back on his back, and Stiles remembers being glad for the werewolf super strength. Derek’s grinning down at Stiles, so they’re both grinning into the other’s face. Alex is sitting beside Chris, like usual, beaming at the camera (a.k.a. Isaac) while James stares at her across the photo. Stiles wonders how he could have missed it, but then again, he hasn’t got the best record for being observant.

The next frame is Derek and Alex, when she was barely a month old, and they’d both been trying to figure out how to be parents, how to boil milk to the right temperature, how to change nappies, and Stiles remembers being struck dumb by the sheer cuteness of Derek + baby. It always struck him dumb and that cuteness could level cities. In the photo, Derek’s got a smudge of talcum powder on his cheek, fast asleep (which is already painful in its beauty) while Alex is fast asleep against his chest, face turned sleepily towards Stiles, doe eyes closed and they both look so peaceful and beautiful, Stiles had to take a photo then, and he loves the photo. It’s in his wallet right now.

The next one is some photo from the Alpha summer, and the First Generation are sitting on Stiles’ old couch, mock fanning themselves over Stiles and Derek. He remembers that moment from the first fluttering, the realisation that he could in fact love _Derek Hale_ . He thumbs over the picture, grinning, before ducking into their room.  

He strips as he walks, focusing on Derek’s phosphorous eyes, watching his every move from above their mess of quilts. Derek, him and his stupid everything, particularly his grumpy and hilarious personality followed by his stubble still makes Stiles’ heart thud in his chest, his knees weak, and he can hear Derek’s heart quicken too.

The beat of Derek’s heart follows every thought in Stiles’ head.

But then again, it always has. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3 Follow me on tumblr for updates and if you have any questions or just generally like talking to fellow Teen Wolf fans :) stilinskihaleandpack.tumblr.com


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